


Harry Potter and the Quest for the Sangreal

by avioleta



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, First Time, Harry Potter Big Bang Challenge, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Rating: NC17, Rituals, Romance, Teacher-Student Relationship, Underage Sex, snarry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:55:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 48,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avioleta/pseuds/avioleta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horcruxes are dangerous to destroy.  Snape knows this.  He also knows that Voldemort has his sights set on something more powerful, something more terrifying, and something that, once invoked, cannot be undone.  Together with Harry, Snape sets out to find this artefact before the Voldemort can obtain it.  If they succeed, they can use its ancient magic to defeat the Dark Lord once and for all.  But time is running out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harry Potter and the Quest for the Sangreal

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Severus/Harry Big Bang. Original artwork by Zarkir. For more of Zarkir's breathtaking work, please visit her LiveJournal page: http://zarkir.livejournal.com/
> 
> This story begins in Harry’s sixth-year. He is 16-18 years old. All sex is consensual. Especial thanks to Aucta Sinistra for the skilled, diligent, and fast beta. All remaining mistakes are my own.

**Title:** Harry Potter and the Quest for the Sangreal  
 **Author:** [](http://avioleta.livejournal.com/profile)[**avioleta**](http://avioleta.livejournal.com/)  
 **Artist:** [**zarkir**](http://zarkir.deviantart.com/)  
 **Other Pairing(s):** Past Snape/OMC; brief Harry/Terry Boot  
 **Fic Rating:** NC-17  
 **Art Rating:** R (NWS)  
 **Word count:** 48,600  
 **Content/Warning(s):** Chan, 16-18 (highlight for spoilers) * Chan, Harry is 16-18. Teacher/student relationship. First time. Explicit m/m sex. Brief mentions of religious/theological themes. General angst and drama.*  


  
** Harry Potter and the Quest for the Sangreal **  


_31 August_

Snape thinks he might already be in hell. He’s considered the possibility before, but now, he believes it’s the only plausible explanation. What else could account for the fact that he’s sitting (once again) in Albus Dumbledore’s office being asked to do the unthinkable?

“I cannot, Albus. I _will_ not do it.” He clenches his fingers at the edge of the desk (knuckles so white, the colour of bone). “How can you even ask this of me?”

The man merely frowns and takes a candy from the bowl (as though it’s every day he asks a friend to commit murder). “Now Severus,” he says, “you can, and you will.”

Snape’s chest feels oddly tight; it shouldn’t be this difficult to breathe. He presses his fingertips to his temples and tries to calm the pounding of his heart. “Albus—”

“And, of course,” Dumbledore continues as if Snape’s entire world isn’t turning into ash, “you know I would not ask this of you if there were any other way. But there is not.” (A wrapper crackles; he pops a candy into his mouth.)

“Albus—”

“So now that that’s settled, there is just the small matter of the boy…”

“Albus!” Snape smacks his palm against the desktop, satisfied by the searing sting.

The man looks up at him, lips parted slightly, as though he’s surprised Snape is sitting there at all.

“I have not agreed, Albus.” It is all Snape can do to keep his voice calm, carefully measured. Everything is splitting apart at the seams. “I have not agreed to do this for you.”

“Why of course you have, my boy.” The man strokes his beard absently, but his eyes are cool. “Years ago, really, when you came back to me.”

Snape tastes blood and realises he has bitten his lip so hard it’s broken the skin. It is all he can do not to storm out of the office. Not to stand and scream and spit and shout. Not to draw his wand and hex the man. ( _How could you, how could you, how could you?_ ). But instead he closes his eyes, focuses on the inhalation, exhalation of each breath from his lungs.

“Now, about the boy,” Dumbledore says again, and Snape grits his teeth, clenches his fingers into fists, looks him straight in the eye.

“You mean the boy you are fattening up, a lamb to slaughter?” Snape’s voice rises (he might actually be shouting), but he doesn’t care. He’s not certain he will ever care again.

“Oh, Severus, we mustn’t talk of Harry that way. We all make sacrifices in times of war. You of all people know that.”

“He is just a child, Albus. And you said we would protect him.”

Dumbledore leans forward, rests an elbow on the desk. “I did, and we have.” For just a moment he almost looks sad, but his expression changes and he smiles (a calculated gesture to be sure). “I believe Lily would be proud. Of you and Harry, both.”

Something like ice cracks deep inside Snape’s chest at the words, and he can’t take it anymore.

Dumbledore is still talking as Snape stands. “I only ask that you continue to look after him. Resume his lessons. He learns well from you, Severus. And, I think, you two are very much alike…”

But Snape has already reached the staircase. The door clicks shut behind him before the Headmaster can finish. Before the violent roil and surge of emotion (swirling just below the surface of Snape’s sensibilities) can crest and overwhelm. Before Snape can do something he might regret.

Later, Snape thinks _that_ might have been Dumbledore’s intention all along.

* * * * *

  
Of course, it’s Snape waiting for him when he finally gets off the train. It would have to be Snape.

Harry is broken and bleeding and rather ashamed that Malfoy caught him, that he left himself vulnerable and open to an attack. It was foolish, really, not to tell anyone where he was going, and it could have been much worse.

Still, he doesn’t want Snape’s censure and ridicule. Not now.

Tonks is tending to his nose. He feels blood (wet and sickeningly warm) against his cheeks, and his head throbs.

Snape only sneers. “Is our hero so vain as to be concerned about his appearance?”

Harry glares; he can feel Tonks tense beside him (fingers tightening around her wand). “His nose is broken, Severus. The Malfoy boy did a number on it.”

“No doubt at Mr. Potter’s provocation.”

Harry does not respond. Snape will never believe him, will never accept or admit that Draco was the instigator, that he’d been _Stupefied_ and helpless when Malfoy stomped on his face. Snape will simply say it was Harry’s fault for spying (sodding hypocritical, he thinks) and most likely take points. But his nose hurts, and he just wants to make it to the Great Hall for dinner, so he bites his lip and says nothing.

“Let me heal the break, at least,” Tonks says through her teeth. She is angry on Harry’s behalf, and it is comforting.

“I see no difference,” Snape replies coolly. “If anything, his visage is improved.” The words are cruel, but there is no emotion behind them, and Snape heads toward the castle again.

Tonks murmurs _“Episkey,”_ and Harry winces as he feels the bone slide back into place. “There,” she says, brushing a hand across his cheek. “Handsome as ever.”

Harry blushes but thanks her.

“Now run along. Don’t want to miss the Sorting.”

He nods and jogs after Snape.

“Oi, and Potter—”

He pauses, turning back.

Tonks’s hair, a vivid pink, falls in wisps around her face. “Hex Malfoy for me.”

Harry smiles. “Will do.”

When he catches up to Snape, the man doesn’t even bother to look at him. The night is cool and crisp; winter will come early this year. A slim crescent of moon hangs in the sky, casts pale shadows across the damp stretch of lawn leading up to the main gate. Snape walks two paces in front of Harry as they make their way through the entryway to reach the Great Hall, and only when the man pauses at the door does Harry chance a glance at his profile.

Snape is not an attractive man (lank black hair, skin the colour of wax). And, now looking at his too large nose, Harry can see the bumps, protrusions, indentations, where it has clearly been broken and not mended properly (or at all).

Harry wonders why the man (capable of such a simple healing spell in his sleep) never bothered to set the break. Perhaps if he had, his nose would not be so overlarge, so hooked.

It occurs to him then that Snape probably does not care, and that realisation unsettles him slightly, though he doesn’t have time to think about why.

All eyes are glued to Harry as he tries to slip discreetly through the doors at the back of the Great Hall. After all, he’s late, he’s covered in blood, and he’s being escorted by the Slytherin Head of House.

He sandwiches himself between Hermione and Ron as Snape strides to the Head Table. Hermione looks up and gasps, pale hand flying to her mouth.

“When you weren’t on the carriages… _Oh God,_ Harry,” she murmurs, conjuring a scrap of flannel. “What happened?”

Harry mouths “later” and tries not to wince as she dabs dried blood off his newly mended nose. Thankfully McGonagall appears then, Sorting Hat in hand, and ushering a herd of wide-eyed first-years into the Hall, sparing him further explanation.

The noise dies down as the newest students are led to the front of the room. They look very young, and Harry tries to remember when he’d been that small (a child thrilled by the discovery of a magical world, completely ignorant of Dark Lords and prophecies and war). But the Sorting Hat begins its song, forcing Harry back to the present.

 _Well, I’m the Hat for Sorting_  
and it’s up to me to decide  
in which of our four houses  
each of you will reside.  
I know who’s best for Ravenclaw –  
smart minds, sharp wits alike.  
And Gryffindors prize bravery.  
They’ll back you in a fight.  
Of all the houses, Slytherin  
is most cunning, most sly.  
And Hufflepuffs are loyal –  
on them you can rely.

 _But our dissimilarities,_  
I’ll say no more about  
for times are changing, fast and sure,  
and of the future I have doubts.  
War is now upon us; we’re standing at the brink.  
And if we don’t do something soon,  
into darkness we’ll surely sink.

 _I do not mean to scare you all._  
I seek only to tell the truth.  
But unfortunately, that truth is grim (the task ahead is tall),  
for everything we’ve ever had  
could crumble and could fall.  
There is one chance I see for us, albeit very slim.  
If we unite (don’t stand apart),  
we just might eke out a win.

 _But He is strong, and stronger still_  
does He seek to be.  
For he’s set his sights on something not found  
to assure a victory.  
These times are dark, and darker still  
will they certainly become.  
For He won’t stop (no, not at all).  
The battle’s just begun.

 _But there are those among us (here within these very walls),_  
who will stand together, unlikely as it seems,  
and fight against the darkness  
and evils yet unseen.  
As a place to start, I recommend  
seeking out what He has yet to find.  
And, remember that we’re counting on  
new alliances in these troubled times.

For a long moment the Great Hall is unnervingly, unnaturally quiet, then everyone begins talking at once.

“Well, that was uplifting,” Seamus comments from across the table. Dean nods rather blankly, and Ron stares at the Sorting Hat, mouth half open. Hermione, brow furrowed, looks as though she’s puzzling out the Hat’s cryptic meaning as best she can.

The song sets Harry on edge, but there isn’t anything he can actually _do_ about it at present. He just hopes that the Hat doesn’t expect him to form a ‘new alliance’ with Draco Malfoy or something. He glances at the staff table, but the professors seem as unsettled and confused as everyone else.

Many are engaged in hushed conversations with their neighbours. Only Dumbledore sits calmly, blue eyes fixed straight ahead. And then there is Snape. Snape is staring directly at _him._ Their eyes meet briefly before Harry looks down again, but he can’t shake the feeling of discomfort that slips down his spine to pool in his stomach.

Then Professor McGonagall, her austere demeanour firmly back in place, stands and calls the first-years forward to begin the Sorting ritual.

Harry ignores the whispered conversation Hermione and Ron are engaged in over his head. He watches silently, as Ackerman, Eloise and Andrews, Leila are both sorted into Ravenclaw. Their new housemates greet them kindly, if more reservedly than usual. Everyone seems too shocked for excessive enthusiasm. Gryffindor doesn’t even manage its customary roar of disapproval when Butler, Edmund becomes the first new Slytherin.

* * * * *

  
The dreams had started again that summer. (Sweat-soaked sheets, throbbing scar, the taste of blood.)

Now, Harry has them nearly every night. He’s taken to casting a silencing charm on his bed before he falls asleep, so he doesn’t wake the dorm when he screams.

He fumbles on his nightstand for his glasses before reaching under the bed for a quill and the small journal he keeps there. He tries to record the details before they fade from his memory (flashes, silver streaked slipping from the corners of his mind). The long corridor. The dark, cold stone. The steady drip, drip, drip of the sound he cannot place. And the door. The door at the end of the hall that he must reach.

It was Hermione's idea to write down the details. _Please tell me you’re recording these dreams._ Her knee bounced up and down anxiously, as she sat, arms folded across her chest, glaring at him in the Common Room, three nights before.

Harry doesn’t see the point, and he told her so. But she only sighed and rolled her eyes ( _Must we tell Professor Dumbledore?_ ). And, of course he acquiesced, knowing when a battle was lost.

But he rarely remembers the dreams once he is awake (images like sand, slipping through a sieve). And what he does remember is remarkably similar every time. The same corridor. The same sound. The same door he’s never managed to open.

Harry recognises the corridor now. After all, he’s been dreaming about it for nearly a year. It is the corridor deep within the Ministry of Magic. The corridor that leads to the Department of Mysteries. Still, he records the information dutifully. He doesn’t want Hermione to go to Dumbledore; it’s no use bothering the Headmaster with such trivial concerns.

One thing is certain: Voldemort is back, and change is coming. Harry feels it in the base of his spine, the tips of his fingers, the soles of his feet. He knows he is precariously perched on the edge of everything; soon something will have to be done.

What Harry doesn’t understand is why he is still dreaming about the hallway to the Department of Mysteries. The prophecy is gone (lost that night in the room with the archway).

Is there something else Voldemort wants? Something, as the Hat said, _He has yet to find?_ Dumbledore said he was looking for something, but they all assumed it was the prophecy.

Harry takes a deep breath and forces himself not to think of Sirius. (Memories, like dreams stored away, clenching at his ribs, tightening, tightening until he can barely breathe). The pain of loss has dulled some over the past few months, but it still hurts (the ache of an old wound, a phantom limb).

He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, wishing (once again) that he could simply be unneeded. He envies Ron and Neville, Dean and Seamus, who, although drawn into the conflict collaterally, will never have the weight of the Wizarding world resting explicitly on their shoulders.

* * * * *

  
Harry is sprawled on his bed the next afternoon, thumbing through an old copy of _Quidditch Monthly,_ when he hears an impatient tap at the window. Startled, he sits to see a stately brown owl eyeing him expectantly through the glass. Once he opens the window, the creature perches on the sill and holds out his leg for Harry to remove a small package.

“Thanks boy.” He reaches out to stroke the bird’s plumage. “You’re quite a handsome fellow, aren't you— _Hey!_ ” The owl nips at him sharply. Harry pulls back, sucking the injured fingertip into his mouth, tasting the coppery tang of blood on his tongue.

“That hurt!” Harry glares at the bird before turning from the window to review his parcel in private.

He undoes the twine binding the brown paper of his package, taking care not to smear blood on the contents. Once the wrappings fall away, however, he immediately reconsiders his initial concern. He holds a battered, brown leather-bound book.

 _Occlude to Obscure: A Wizard's Guide to Occlumency and Legilimency._

A thin leaf of parchment is slipped into the worn pages. Harry removes it hesitantly; he has a sinking suspicion who the package is from. And he is right. Harry recognises the spidery scrawl right away. He notes that Snape has foregone his usual blood red ink in favour of black, but it does little to assuage his concerns.

He sighs and scans the note. It is brief and, as expected, unpleasant.

 _Mr. Potter,_

 _Professor Dumbledore insists upon your recommencing Occlumency lessons this fall. Although I have assured him of the futility of such a pursuit, the Headmaster believes it a necessity. And, of course, it is his privilege to delegate such tasks and our duty to oblige. I will expect you at seven on Monday and Thursday evenings in my office. We will begin next week. Please review the enclosed text in preparation._

 _S. Snape_

Harry feels ill. It is enough to endure the man weekly in Defence. Private lessons are akin to torture.

“Snape's owl,” he mutters, turning back to the window. “Figures.”

* * * * *

  
Their first Divination class hasn’t even begun, and Harry already wishes he'd followed Hermione's example and dropped the course when he had the chance. The atmosphere of Professor Trelawney's tower classroom is oppressive and claustrophobic (perfumed air so thick with incense, Harry can hardly breathe). He feels dizzy and lightheaded and certain there are a dozen places he’d rather be. He has to admit that even the dank coolness of the dungeons would be preferable. And that is saying a lot.

“Some things never change,” Ron says, one sleeve of his robe pressed to his mouth as though he’s trying not to gag. “Let's grab those cushions by the window.”

Harry follows him to the corner and settles on a violet pillow, hoping he won’t be required to do much more than meditate today. A few moments later, however, Professor Trelawney appears, levitating a large tea service. Ron groans.

“Good afternoon, class,” she begins, voice high and wispy. “I would inquire as to how you spent your summers, but as I already know, I will not waste our time with such mundane concerns. Instead, if you will please take a teacup from the shelf, we shall begin our first lesson.”

Once Harry has finished his tea, he swirls the dregs (three times with his left hand) and turns the cup upside down on his saucer to drain. Ron is already thumbing through his battered copy of _Unfogging the Future_ , lips pursed, brow furrowed. “Hey, does this look more like an octopus or an umbrella to you?” he asks, handing his cup to Harry.

“Er…” Harry turns the cup around, examining the residue at the bottom. “I'd say a thumbprint with a bit of a smudge.” He frowns; tealeaves have never been his strength. “What does the book say?”

Ron turns a page in the textbook. “The octopus means danger. That sounds good.” He makes a note on his parchment. “Trelawney will like it at least. What do you think I'm in danger from?”

Harry laughs. “I couldn’t say. Voldemort's too obvious I suppose. What does the umbrella mean?”

“Annoyances,” Ron reads. “Hmm, that could work too. I'll write that I'm in danger of being annoyed. Or, am I annoyed at being in danger?”

“I'd go with both,” Harry says, drumming his fingers on the tabletop as Ron scratches down his predictions. Then he picks up his cup. “Let’s do mine.”

On first glance, the dregs look like a dark blob with a tail. But then again, that's what the bottoms of Harry’s teacups usually look like.

“I think it’s some sort of mushroom,” Ron offers after a few minutes deliberation.

“No,” Harry says, turning the teacup once more. The porcelain is warm against his palm. “I think it's more of a cup or something. What does that one say?”

Ron flips through a few pages. “A cup means rewards.”

He shakes his head. “That'll never work.” He traces his thumb along the lip where the painted gold has begun to wear away. “Besides, it's got a stem. Maybe it's a goblet or a wine glass.”

“It can't be.” Ron looks at the text again. “There isn’t a wine glass or a goblet in the book. And, I still think it looks like a mushroom anyway.”

Harry takes the book from him. The interpretation for ‘mushroom’ does look promising. ( _‘Changes does your future hold. A new path for you will soon unfold. A new home, perhaps, in a distant land. Or a voyage is now close at hand. A quest: there’s something you do seek. The mushroom brings it into reach.’_ ) “Well, I'm not planning on moving across the country any time soon, so maybe I've got to complete some sort of journey.”

Ron sucks on the end of his quill and nods. “That makes sense. After all, you've been on this path to defeat You-Know-Who since you were a baby. That's definitely a journey.” He points to Harry’s parchment. “Write that down.”

Harry dunks his quill in the ink and quickly jots down his prediction, adding in a bit of misery for good measure. He has just reached the conclusion when Trelawney appears at his shoulder, numerous shawls trailing in her wake.

“Let me have a look, dear,” she says, taking Harry's cup from him. “Oh no,” she begins predictably. Harry rolls his eyes at Ron.

“My poor boy, this is a dark cup indeed. You have great trials ahead of you. _Great_ trials,” she emphasises. “Filled with suffering and tribulations.” Trelawney sighs deeply before (presumably) turning her inner eye to Ron.

“And you my dear,” she begins, looking at him sagely, “would do well to avoid all inclement weather.”

* * * * *

  
 _9 September_

When Potter arrives at his door, he is shaking, whether from frustration or anger Snape can’t decide. But his jaw is set, and his eyes are narrow (fingers clenching his wand so tightly his knuckles are white).

“Sit.” Snape looks down at the essay he’s marking, but he can tell Potter is wary. The boy does not pocket his wand as he takes a seat in the straight-back chair across from Snape’s desk.

“Mr. Potter,” he says, finally setting his quill down and looking up. “Tell me, what is the first step to successful Occlumency?”

“You must clear your mind, sir,” Potter answers without pause.

Snape thinks he masks his surprise rather well. Perhaps Potter actually read the text he provided. Though, of course, the answer is nothing more than he told the boy himself (repetitively) last year. “And how, exactly, do you clear your mind?”

The dungeon light flickers and glints off Potter’s ridiculous glasses. He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. “Magic.”

Snape sighs and resists the urge to press his fingers to his temples. It _would_ be too much to ask that the boy come prepared. Perhaps he should have hexed the child when he first arrived. “Magic?” He does not bother to veil his derision. “And how, Mr. Potter, is that any different from everything we do?”

The boy scowls. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then by all means, please, elucidate.” He drums his fingers on the desk and waits for a response.

Potter opens his mouth then closes it again. It’s comical watching as he tries to put his thoughts in order. “I use my magic to clear my mind.”

“Obviously,” Snape sneers when it’s clear Potter has nothing else to say. Really, attempting to teach the boy mind magic is pointless at best.

“No.” Potter fidgets, brow knitting together in frustration. “If I focus on my magic, not my thoughts, then I am able to _use_ the magic to conceal them – instead of focusing on the thought itself, which only brings it to the front of my mind.”

Snape raises an eyebrow and says nothing. Though the boy is clearly incapable of explaining himself, the idea is sound. Of course the focus must be on the magic; after all, the actual thought one seeks to conceal is irrelevant. What matters is the magic in place to shield it from the Legilimens. “And how do you use your magic to conceal these thoughts?”

“I can feel it. And if I think about it hard enough, I can use my magic like a net to pull all my feelings together.” Potter frowns. “ _Presumably_ , you’ll tell me how to put a barrier between those feelings and Voldemort.”

Snape ignores the boy’s tone and his surly implication that he hasn’t been attempting to do just that for over a year. Potter’s choice of words strikes him as peculiar. “You can feel it?”

“Yes.” Potter nods, eyes narrowed suspiciously. He looks down at his wand, still clenched between pale fingers. “I feel it in my blood. It flows down my arm to funnel through my wand. It’s in my fingertips, the palms of my hands when I cast wandless magic. Of course, I can _feel_ it.”

When Snape doesn’t respond, the boy shifts in his seat, looks suddenly unsure. “Can’t you?”

Snape regards him, strokes a fingertip along his jaw. “I can, if I concentrate. And Dumbledore, the Dark Lord assuredly can. But no, Mr. Potter, the majority of wizards cannot feel their magic. That is why we use wands, spells, and incantations to channel it, to translate it into a form more easily understood.” He pauses, considering his words carefully. It makes sense, of course; the boy’s power is strong. Though, Potter clearly does not understand the implications of such a thing. “But you have never been like other wizards.” He hopes he’s injected the appropriate amount of contempt, of disdain into his tone. Still, if Dumbledore is right (and he usually is) then Potter will have to endure the unthinkable, and he can only pray the boy is as strong as they all need him to be.

“All this means nothing, though, if you do not know how to use it.” He picks up his cup of tea but, finding only dregs, sets it down again. “Stand. Draw your wand.”

Potter scrambles to his feet, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes bright with concentration. But when Snape casts the spell, the boy’s mind parts readily (a blade through butter, a knife slicing flesh from bone). Potter’s magic sparks, white hot and brilliant, but memories still spill fluidly across Snape’s vision.

 _Potter at eleven, sitting cross-legged in an abandoned classroom and staring at a mirror. Lily and James, smiling and happy and alive…alive._

 _The Diggory boy, lying dead and motionless. Potter in a graveyard, surrounded by masked, cloaked Death Eaters._

 _The eldest Weasley at a crowded dinner table. His hands, his smile making Potter blush._

With a strong burst of power, Potter manages to force Snape out. He staggers a step backward, looks down his nose at the boy. Potter is on the ground on his hands and knees. He’s flushed and sweating; his fringe is plastered to his forehead covering the scar.

“I see, Mr. Potter, that this is, yet again, nothing more than a spectacular waste of my time.”

Potter sits back on his heels. His breathing is heavy as he glares up at Snape. “No. No, I practised. I—”

“Enough.” Snape holds up a hand. He does not want to hear the boy’s excuses. “Next time, I expect more.”

Potter gets to his feet slowly but does not protest. He nods once before turning and slipping out the door.

* * * * *

  
Harry practises.

It is easier now that he’s stopped trying to visualise his memories and instead focuses on his magic. But Snape is right, of course. The ability means absolutely nothing if he can’t use it. And, regardless of progress (drawing thoughts and feelings together until nothing but magic remains), Harry still dreams.

This time, there is blood. That part he remembers.

There has never been blood before.

It runs in streams to pool in the cracks and crevices of the cold stone floor. In the dim light of the hallway, the gray of the slate is streaked with crimson liquid. Harry slips and falls hard to his knees. The blood oozes, thick and sickly warm between his fingers. Wetness seeps through his jeans, and he can taste it on his tongue.

It is overwhelming.

He needs to make it to the end of the hallway. Harry crawls, hands sliding on the slick stones; he is almost there.

But suddenly the steady drip drip drip intensifies. It gushes and it roars, and then the door bursts open with a torrent of blood that floods the narrow hall.

Harry is trapped. His mouth moves, but his lips can’t form the spells in time. He is swallowed whole. The sensation is surreal. He feels himself scream, but the blood fills his mouth and his throat, choking him, stopping the sound. He can’t think; he can’t breathe. His muscles tense, but then his body relaxes involuntarily as the blood washes over and around and through him. He feels nothing, yet he feels disjointed, thick, and drugged.

Then everything goes black.

He wakes trembling uncontrollably. He gasps for breath; his chest aches, and he can still taste the blood.

Harry reaches for his glasses and takes a swallow of water from the cup on his bedside cabinet. Then he pulls Snape’s Occlumency book out from underneath the bed. Perhaps _Occlude_ has some advice on blocking one’s thoughts while asleep.

An hour of reading, however, yields nothing.

It makes sense. The book, Snape, and Dumbledore all seem to agree that eye contact is essential to Legilimency. And even Harry knows that eye contact is bloody well impossible while asleep.

But the usual magical rules and theories do not always apply to him. Snape said that time and space matter in magic, and Voldemort, presumably, is nowhere near Hogwarts. Yet, his thoughts are invading Harry’s dreams.

Harry sighs and, once again exhausted, flops back on his bed. Maybe Snape will help him learn to close his mind to Voldemort while he sleeps.

Deep down, a part of him wants to trust Snape. Or, at least, he wants to understand why Dumbledore does. But it’s no good. Harry still hates him (at times, nearly as much as he hates Voldemort himself). And sometimes, that hatred is invigorating. It makes Harry feel alive when being the Boy Who Lived Only to Kill Voldemort makes him want to disappear into obscurity.

Still, Harry can’t help but understand how much of a risk Snape takes every day to pass on information to Dumbledore and the Order.

Life was easier when everything was black and white, good and evil, light and dark. In reality, he knows nothing works that way, and Snape is the very definition of ambiguity, an indefinite shade of gray.

* * * * *

  
The next evening, Harry goes to the Library to complete his Transfiguration reading.

He finds an empty table and sits down, but he does not pull _Advanced Transfiguration_ from his bag. Instead, he reaches for his Potions text. It’s strange. Ever since he started Potions with Professor Slughorn, or (more accurately) ever since he started Potions with the Prince's old book, Harry has found that he quite enjoys the class. Of course, he is certain his newfound enjoyment of the subject has _everything_ to do with the fact that Snape is no longer teaching it.

He thumbs through the worn pages of the old textbook, pausing every so often to read one of the Prince's neatly scribbled comments. Nearly every section is annotated. There are ink-smeared improvements to brewing techniques, scathing remarks about the inadequacy of different procedures and ingredients, and sarcastic comments about the ineptitude of one or another Potion maker.

Harry can’t help but smile. The Prince – whoever he (or she) might be – is impressive. Harry doesn’t understand how a student (for the Prince had to have been only sixteen or seventeen when he had the textbook) could know so much.

And that’s before he considers the spells! In addition to the notes and comments squeezed in between lines and scrawled in the margins, the pages are filled with invented spells.

At first, Harry didn’t know this was possible, but, now that he thinks about it, he realises that the spells they learn have to come from somewhere -- someone, at some point, created them. Harry knows that magic is always evolving. But it had never occurred to him that a student (someone his own age) could go about inventing his own magic.

“Something funny?” a soft voice startles Harry, and he looks up to see Terry Boot, a sixth-year Ravenclaw, standing next to his table.

“Oh, um, not really,” he answers, closing _Advanced Potion-Making_ and pulling out his Transfiguration text. For some reason he doesn’t want the other boy to see any of the Prince's comments. It’s odd, but he feels protective of the old book, as though the notes and sarcastic remarks are private and meant only for him.

“Can I join you?” Terry asks. “There aren't any available tables.”

“Yeah, sure.” Harry watches as the other boy sits down and opens his bag. He doesn’t really know Terry, but he joined DA last year and seems pleasant enough.

Harry finds the right chapter and begins to read, but, for some reason, he’s distracted. He looks up again. Terry is focussed on the assignment, lips pursed, finger trailing over the page. Harry looks down at his book. Then he rummages in his bag for a quill. Perhaps if he takes notes, it will be easier to concentrate.

He starts reading again, trying to make sense of the words on the page. But he is still intensely aware of the other boy sitting across from him. The way he shifts in his chair, curling one leg up beneath him. The way he drums his fingertips on the tabletop before pausing to flip the page.

Harry realises that he isn’t even pretending to read anymore. Instead, he is watching Terry Boot. Watching him, that is, until Terry Boot looks up and sees him doing so. Harry feels warmth splash across his cheeks and averts his eyes, but he can feel Terry looking at him.

“I, er, what chapters did McGonagall assign again?” Harry asks lamely.

“Two and three,” Terry responds with a smile, before lifting his arms above his head. He arches his back and stretches, groaning softly when his spine cracks. His jumper slides up, revealing a thin slice of pale skin.

Terry smiles again, and Harry blushes some more. The boy rocks his chair back onto two legs and does not pull his jumper down. The sight is appealing, and that realisation is not nearly as unsettling as perhaps it should be.

Oh.

 _Oh..._

Harry takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Terry is still watching him, his expression guarded but appraising. Harry looks down and tries to read, but it is impossible. He turns the page and sucks the end of his quill into his mouth.

Terry exhales.

Then Harry feels a foot brush against his under the table. It startles him, but he doesn’t pull away. Terry’s lips curve, a hint of a smile, and Harry drops his gaze back to his Transfiguration book. He knows Terry didn’t touch him by accident.

And that thought...excites him? Harry turns a page in his book.

Terry moves slightly so that his knee is touching Harry's. He tenses, and Terry looks at him, monitoring his reaction. But it feels...good.

Terry licks his lips.

He takes a deep, steadying breath and tries to make sense of what he is feeling.

Harry knows now why his experience with Cho hadn't been all that successful. It is the same reason he hasn’t been interested in Ginny's advances. But understanding, in some sort of abstract way, that he doesn’t fancy girls is a lot different than actually _liking_ a boy.

Is Terry even gay? Harry assumes he must be, judging from the way his leg is slowly sliding against his under the table.

Harry puts down his quill. He’s certain the pounding of his heart must be audible across the room.

Then Terry rests his elbows on the table top and says, “Do you...er, would you want to—”

Something like want twists in Harry’s stomach, unfamiliar and confusing and exciting all at once, but he knows he’s not ready (might never be) for whatever Terry is offering. His mouth is dry, and it’s all he can do to shake his head.

“It’s not… I’m just…” He hangs his head and knows that Terry must think he’s the biggest tease. Or prude. Or jerk. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

But Terry just smiles again, wistfully. “It was worth a shot.” And his voice is kind and a bit rough.

“It’s just, that I'm not...” Harry feels his cheeks flush. “Well, I think I am, but...” he looks down again, feeling incredibly foolish.

Terry reaches out, brushes a finger against the back of his hand. His touch is warm. “But you're not quite ready for this,” he says.

“Yeah. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” Terry replies, his voice soft.

“How did you even know that I, er, that I am...”

“Bent?” Terry chuckles, a soft burst of sound.

Harry is certain his cheeks are bordering on magenta.

“Yeah, I mean, I hardly know myself. I didn't think anyone else did.”

Terry shrugs. “I didn't know. Not really. Just took a chance. Got lucky.”

Harry nods and wonders what the appropriate protocol is in a situation like this. Should he ask Terry not to tell anyone? Should he just leave? Wouldn't that be awkward? He bites his lip, considering, but Terry, thankfully, answers the question for him.

“It’s getting late,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “’Think I’ll head back to my dorm.”

“Okay.” Harry watches as the boy collects his things and stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Let me know if you ever, you know, change your mind about things.”

Harry nods and thinks he can live with that.

* * * * *

  
Harry works hard.

He spends more and more time in the Library either absorbed in his copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ or rereading key sections in _Occlude to Obscure._

He notices Terry Boot watching him some evenings and knows he could have him if he wanted. But he doesn’t. Not now. Maybe not ever. Terry has kept his word and says nothing, and, for that, Harry is thankful.

Classes are getting easier, too. Between the Prince’s book and a bit of extra focus, Harry finds that he can actually be successful at his studies.

Hermione even comments on his diligence. “You see Ron,” she says tapping her quill on the tabletop. “Look what a bit of concentration and extra effort can accomplish. If you would just apply yourself, you could improve your marks like Harry has.”

Ron rolls his eyes.

Harry shrugs apologetically. But there isn’t much for it. He _likes_ learning about magic, and there is still so much he needs to know. He worries that he’s done nothing but waste time over the last few years. Time spent on things like Exploding Snap and sneaking Butterbeers and obsessing over Quidditch. And he can’t help but wonder if he'd spent just a bit more of that time on his studies, would he be stronger, more prepared?

During Defence, Snape either ignores him or calls on him to attempt the more difficult and potentially painful spells. Sometimes he succeeds, and Snape rarely acknowledges these achievements. Sometimes he fails, and Snape takes especial pleasure in criticising Harry’s weaknesses and shortcomings. But, then again, he always has.

Harry sets a goal to never bollocks up the same spell twice. At times, he manages it. He wonders if Snape notices his increased efforts, notices his accomplishments, and he wonders if the man cares.

Harry also wonders why he is suddenly concerned about what Snape thinks of him.

But, regardless of his efforts, a week later Harry finds himself (once again) back up against the wall, heart thudding in his ears, and Snape pushing at the edges of his mind.

The same familiar images flash by. _Sirius bathed in green light, falling, falling. Hermione leaning over to whisper in Ron’s ear. Cedric shirtless and smiling, the curve of his jaw, the pale line of his throat making Harry’s skin heat._

And that’s enough.

He focuses on his magic, aware of Snape’s own power surrounding him, but somehow he manages to separate himself, pull his memories in, tie them together, force Snape out.

The man gasps at Harry’s resistance and takes a deep breath, but his lips quickly curl into their characteristic sneer. “Fascinating, Mr. Potter. Tell me, do all your...fantasies star deceased Hufflepuffs?”

“Sod off,” Harry spits, shaking and hating Snape more than ever.

But Snape only smiles (a sinister twist of thin lips) and turns back to his desk. It is clear the lesson is over. Harry takes his bag and leaves before Snape can change his mind.

* * * * *

  
Sometimes they duel.

Harry watches Snape. The way he moves – robes discarded, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow (wiry forearms, a hint of the Mark). He catalogues the spells Snape chooses. They are never telegraphed; there are no patterns. The man seems to have an unlimited amount of magic at his disposal.

Harry practises his shields; he learns how to deflect, to predict, to adapt. And though he usually returns to his dorm bruised and shaken (Snape’s scathing commentary still ringing in his ears), he thinks he’s improving.

But tonight it’s late, and Harry is on the floor again, the stone cool and rough against his palms. His arm aches; his hip is bruised, and Snape stands over him, eyes dark, face impassive. His wand dangles from pale fingers.

Harry runs a hand over his face, pushing his glasses up to his forehead. He’s tired; he’ll be sore tomorrow.

“Get up, Potter,” Snape says.

“You’re too fast,” Harry gasps, climbing unsteadily to his feet. “I can’t keep up.”

“Then you must try harder.” The man’s voice is calm. He’s not even out of breath. And Harry nods; Snape is right, of course. (He always is.)

Harry dodges a stinging hex; the impact of the spell echoes off the dungeon walls. Snape deflects Harry’s _Stupefy_ effortlessly, wordlessly, and Harry doesn’t sidestep quickly enough. The cutting hex brushes his shoulder, slices clean through cloth and skin.

Harry gasps and nearly drops his wand. He presses a hand to his shoulder, feels the warmth of blood against his palm.

“Why are you only trying to dodge?” Snape’s look holds nothing but contempt. “Use your magic. You must shield and deflect my spells or you will never have time to counter.”

“I…okay.” But even though he holds up his wand, funnels all his energy into the spell, his shield doesn’t snap into place in time, and the impact of Snape’s _Impedimenta_ knocks him back into the wall, forces the air from his lungs.

Harry is not entirely sure why he casts the spell; Snape always keeps their Occlumency lessons separate from their duelling. But his eyes are watering and Snape is raising his wand again, and the word just slips from his lips. “ _Legilimens._ ”

Snape seems as surprised as Harry, and physical shields don’t work against mind magic.

The spell jerks Harry forward (a sensation both similar and dissimilar to falling into Dumbledore's Pensieve), as his magic twines with Snape’s. There are memories, images in bits and fragments, and suddenly Harry can’t tell where he ends and Snape begins.

 _A young boy clutches at his mother (bloodied nose, blackened eye). The kitchen is shabby but brightly lit. His heart pounds; tears prick his eyes. The same boy, older now, bent over a desk and writing furiously (Snivellus, they called him Snivellus…) His stomach is in knots, his fingers stained with ink. The cloakroom is warm and stuffy (flash of skin, press of lips) as quick fingers tug at his flies. The bed is draped in Slytherin green. Snape arches his back, shifts his hips (sheets that smell of sweat and come). The boy beneath him has dark hair and fair skin. “Fuck, I’m close. Don’t stop. Don’t—”_

“Enough, Mr. Potter,” the man’s voice is harsh, and Harry staggers as he’s thrown back, pushed forcefully from Snape’s mind.

Suddenly it’s fifth-year all over again. But this time, Harry didn’t need a Pensieve to violate the man’s privacy, to destroy his trust.

“I…” But Harry doesn’t know what to say. He looks down; his hands are shaking.

Snape says nothing, and Harry wishes that he would hex him or Obliviate him or at least scream and yell. But instead he just stands there. Harry can feel his eyes on him, even though he can’t bring himself to lift his head. He is ashamed of his actions, ashamed that he’s (yet again) acted callously and with no regard to consequence.

Snape’s disapproval hurts. It uncoils in his chest to ache and burn, and Harry doesn’t understand. After all, he shouldn’t care what the man thinks of him. But now, standing here (head bowed, wand at his side) Harry wants nothing more than Snape’s regard. He wants him to know that he’s trying, that he doesn’t want to be a disappointment anymore. But Harry says nothing; he can’t even look Snape in the eye.

“Get out.” When Snape finally speaks, his voice is low and laced with a loathing that makes Harry cringe.

He can do nothing but grab his things and flee.

* * * * *

  
 _1 October_

The boy says nothing.

Snape expects news of his sexual preferences to be circulating the Great Hall by breakfast. But one day, then another goes by without so much as a rumour, and he wonders what Potter’s up to.

Certainly there has been speculation before. He works in a boarding school for Christ’s sake; children love to talk. But Snape has always been discreet, and there has never been any proof to substantiate such gossip.

Now Harry bloody Potter has enough ammunition to expose him, ridicule him, destroy him. And yet, the boy says absolutely nothing.

It’s disconcerting.

And then Potter starts watching him. He can feel the boy’s eyes on him at meals, in Defence, in the corridors between classes. Though Potter is careful and does not stare openly (even he has a bit more sense than that), Snape is a spy. He sees the quick glances, the sideways stolen looks. And he wants to know what the boy is searching for.

Potter arrives promptly for his next lesson.

Snape tries to tell himself he’s surprised. But, in all honesty, he knew Potter would be there. A year ago, the boy would have used any excuse to shirk responsibilities, to get out of extra lessons, and avoid Snape altogether.

But something is different now. It was subtle at first, but the boy is more focussed now, more determined than ever. And he’s improving; his magic is getting stronger. No. Potter will never be truly skilled at Occlumency; his power is too raw, too dependent on emotion. But he’s liable to turn into quite the formidable Defence student. Even Snape must admit this, and he knows it should please him. After all, the boy will one day face the Dark Lord, and he must succeed or die trying.

Dumbledore, of course, believes that any success must come at the expense of Potter’s life. But Snape refuses to think about that. In fact, he prefers not to think of the boy at all.

So, when Potter arrives at precisely seven o’clock, he sets him to a difficult reading task and does not look up from his own work.

Snape expects the boy to protest, to complain about such a mundane assignment. But he simply pulls out parchment and a quill and begins to read.

An hour passes, then two, and Potter says nothing. His head is bowed, wisps of unruly dark hair frame his face. One pale finger trails across a line of text. He frowns, scratching a few words down on the corner of his page. Ink smudges dark against cream coloured parchment.

Snape closes his book; he’ll need to return to the library tomorrow, though he’s worried he won’t find what he needs. After all, how can you find something that’s not there? “All right,” he says. He’s tired; it’s late. “That’s enough for tonight.”

Potter closes the book, slips the parchment and quill back into his bag. “You were watching me.”

Snape frowns but inclines his head. After all, it’s true. There is no reason for him to deny it. Still, the boy’s observation unsettles him slightly. “I am always _watching you,_ Mr. Potter. How else, do you suppose, have we managed to keep you alive all these years?”

The boy bites his lip. He looks as though he wants to say something else, but he only nods once, a quick bob of his head, and stands to collect his things. Snape opens another book and does not look at him.

“Thank you, sir.” Potter’s voice is soft, barely a whisper, and he is gone when Snape looks up again. The door closes with a soft click behind him. Surely, Snape thinks, he must have imagined the words.

Snape is not sure when everything changed.

Perhaps it is knowing the boy will have to die. Like Lily. Like Albus. No doubt like himself.

Or, perhaps it is the fact that (no matter what Snape tells himself), the boy simply doesn’t remind him of James Potter anymore. Yes, Potter (Harry now?) is still headstrong. He is stubborn to a fault. But he isn’t arrogant. Even Snape must admit that.

Instead, Potter is quiet, hardworking, and more powerful than James Potter ever dreamed of being.

And, although Snape will never say so out loud, it appears that the boy has been practising. He is more creative when they duel, and he has shown mild improvements at Occlumency. At least, he’s managed to repel Snape’s attacks more quickly than he did last year. Of course, it might just be sheer, dumb luck. But Potter does seem stronger.

Snape knows it won’t be enough (might never be enough). He, better than anyone perhaps, understands what they are up against, understands the Dark Lord’s power. And Potter is still only able to push him out, to Occlude effectively, once his emotions flare uncontrollably.

Snape walks over to the sideboard and picks up a glass; the cut crystal is cool against his palm as he pours a measure of scotch from the decanter. He takes a long sip, enjoying the slow burn of alcohol in his stomach.

He’s told Albus that the boy isn’t suited for mind magic. He has always been completely, entirely, foolishly ruled by his emotions. It is something Snape isn’t sure he will ever be able to understand. How can Potter continue to wear his heart on his sleeve when it has already cost him so much?

He sighs and takes another slow sip.

Even if the boy manages to force effective Occlumency shields into place by raw power and sheer will, he will never be able to completely block out the Dark Lord. Not while his power, his ability is contingent on an emotion that is, by its very definition, volatile and unpredictable.

Potter will never master the subtlety of effective Occlumency until he succeeds in controlling the very emotions that lie at the root of his power.

Snape takes a deep breath and drains the rest of his drink, wondering (once again) if Dumbledore has sent him on a fool’s errand.

 

* * * * *

  
It’s been two weeks, and they haven’t duelled again. Harry doesn’t complain. After all, he’s certain he violated some sort of essential rule or code of ethics. At the very least, he knows he shouldn’t have infringed upon the man’s privacy again, and he hates ( _hates_ ) that he can’t get those images out of his head.

Snape gives him increasingly difficult reading assignments and says nothing. But Harry knows he’s watching him, and it never fails to set him on edge.

Finally, he can’t help himself. They’ve been working for over two hours. Snape has done little more than pore over his own text ( _Ancient Celtic Blood Magic_ ) and glance up at him occasionally (lips pressed tight, a thin pale line). “I’m sorry, you know.” Harry is glad his voice is steady. His heart is pounding frantically against his ribs.

Snape looks at him, face carefully blank.

“I’m sorry that I cast that spell,” Harry says after a long moment when Snape hasn’t so much as opened his mouth.

“It was appropriate, given the situation.”

Harry blinks. Of all things, that is not what he expected the man to say.

“Though not a traditional offensive spell, _Legilimens_ can, nevertheless be effective.” Snape sets his quill down, closes his book. “But you did not take advantage of the distraction. You did not press the attack.”

“I…” Harry looks down. He feels Snape’s eyes on him.

“You were too occupied…enjoying the view.” Something in Snape’s voice makes his stomach twist. Harry feels his cheeks heat.

“You haven’t told anyone,” Snape continues, and though his voice is flat, it carries the hint of a question.

Harry shakes his head because Snape has to understand. After all, he would never, _never_ do that.

The man drums pale fingers on the desktop. “I must say I’m surprised, Potter, for you to have such a…valuable piece of information and do nothing with it. It’s quite disappointing.” The words are sharp (cutting and tinged with magic), but Snape’s expression belies his calm. Harry is certain he has never shown such vulnerability. “You could ruin me.”

“No.” Harry is shaking his head again. “No, I wouldn’t. I won’t. Believe me.” He realises his fingers are clenching the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles are white. He forces himself to relax. “Look, I know it’s none of my business. Those memories were not meant for me.”

Snape looks at him for a long moment, dark eyes appraising.

“Besides,” Harry adds, “our lessons are secret. Remedial Potions and all.”

Snape’s lips twist, and he nods once, reaching for another book. It is clear he believes the conversation finished.

“How did you know you were...?” Harry blurts without thinking. “When did you—” Then, realising what he’s asked, he claps a hand to his mouth, as if hoping to reclaim the offending words.

Snape only raises an eyebrow. “Know that I preferred men?” His voice is measured and unnaturally calm.

Harry nods, flustered and confused.

“I knew that I was...different by the time I was in third year,” Snape answers slowly. “It seems, Mr. Potter, we have a bit more in common than we might have originally thought.”

“I, um, no. I'm not, well...” Harry blushes and looks down, but not before he sees Snape roll his eyes.

“I think that's quite enough for tonight.”

“Yes, Professor,” he says relieved. He shoves his things into his bag and stands.

“And, Harry.” Snape stops him. “I do...appreciate your discretion in these matters.” He is looking down at his research again, but there is something in his voice Harry does not recognise. It flutters like warmth in his stomach.

“Yes, sir.”

It isn’t until he is nearly back to Gryffindor Tower that he realises Snape called him Harry.

* * * * *

  
Harry arrives at Snape’s office to find the door locked and warded. It is odd, Harry thinks, that the man isn’t expecting him. He presses his palm flat against the door, feeling the thrum of Snape’s magic (subtle yet sharply tinged) pulsing through his veins. It feels like a heartbeat, a rush in his ears.

He pushes his own magic out, feels it tangle with Snape’s; it is a strange, surprisingly intimate sensation, but it’s gone nearly as soon as it begins. The door is flung open, and Snape stands there, staring at Harry like he is a particularly noxious potion ingredient.

“What the— oh. Potter. Is it Thursday already?”

The man looks dreadful. His skin is pinched and drawn, and dark circles purple his eyes. One pale hand clutches at his left forearm.

Harry feels as though a stone has dropped into his stomach. “I...He…oh, God…”

“Mr. Potter.” Snape’s voice is clipped. “I apologise, but I’m afraid I must postpone our session this evening. I have a…pressing engagement elsewhere.”

Harry nods. His chest feels tight, and something like fear coils in his belly. When Snape moves to step past him, Harry reaches out without thinking, catches the man’s hand in his. He gasps, as surprised by his own action as Snape surely is, but he does not let go. Instead, Harry slides his thumb across Snape’s knuckles; the man’s skin is soft and cool under his touch.

Snape looks down, lips parted slightly in confusion, but he does not pull away.

“Come back,” Harry says vehemently. His voice is low, but he is pleased it does not shake. And Snape nods once, eyes dark, expression unreadable. Then, he slips past Harry into the hall, leaving him standing alone in the cold dungeon office.

* * * * *

  
The following week, Harry finds Snape at his desk; there are dozens of texts and scrolls spread out before him. The man barely looks up as he comes in, and Harry sets his bag in the corner wondering if they might actually duel again, or if Snape has yet another reading assignment for him.

But Snape says nothing, and Harry watches as he makes a note in the margin of one of the texts (thin lines of slick black ink). A strand of hair falls into his face, and Snape brushes it away absently; his fingers are slender and pale. Harry shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He hates not knowing what the man expects from him.

“What are you working on?” Harry asks after a while, when it appears that Snape is perfectly content to ignore his presence entirely.

Snape looks up, dark eyes narrowed. “Research.”

Harry nods. “I see.” Though, of course, he doesn’t.

“Make yourself useful.” Snape motions to the stack of books on the edge of his desk. “Start with Walsh.”

Harry sits down and picks up the large text. The spine pricks with magic; it’s clearly very old. “What am I looking for?”

“Anything that could be useful in unravelling protection spells. Particularly those that involve blood magic.”

Harry turns to the table of contents. Several entries reference protection spells, but they seem to focus on their creation, not destruction. He flips to the first section and begins reading, pausing to pull a quill and scrap of parchment from his bag. “Blood spells must be undone with blood,” Harry says after a few minutes. “We talked about this in Defence.”

“Obviously, Potter,” Snape responds, fingers pressed to his temples. Clearly, Harry is already testing the limits of the man’s patience.

“Then what are we looking for? Is there another way?”

“There has to be.” Harry is surprised by the vehemence in Snape’s voice. The man runs a hand through his hair. It is an uncharacteristically agitated gesture, and Harry wonders what’s bothering him.

“Tell me, Potter,” Snape says. “Whose blood is necessary to dismantle a spell anchored in blood?”

“The blood used in casting.”

“And if that blood is no longer available?”

Harry taps his quill on the desktop. “Usually, the spell disintegrates on its own.”

Snape nods. “Why?”

“Because protection spells cast with blood magic are typically personal – the caster uses his or her own blood for the spellwork – and if that person dies, the spell is rendered unnecessary, so it falls apart.”

“Yes.” Snape’s response feels oddly like praise, and Harry can’t help but feel rather pleased. “Or a stronger wizard or witch can use someone else’s blood to cast a protection spell on them.”

“But the same concept applies,” Harry says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Should that person die, the protection is no longer needed, so the spell collapses. There would be no need to dismantle it.”

“You’re right.” Snape leans back in his chair; he looks thoughtful, and it softens his harsh features markedly. “But what if a wizard uses someone else’s blood to cast a personal protection spell? Does the spell unravel if his victim or…donor dies?”

Harry frowns; he hadn’t thought of that. “I’m not sure.”

Snape waves his hand and wordlessly summons two teacups and a kettle. Harry watches as the man pours himself a cup and drains it in one long swallow. He refills it before sliding the pot across to Harry. The teacups are quite lovely (pale blue with delicate sweeps of gold). “Unfortunately,” Snape says after a long moment, “I fear that, in such a case -- should the donor die -- the spell remains, but the way to counter it disappears.”

Harry takes a sip of tea. It is hot and bitter against his tongue, but something cold and sickly uncurls in his stomach. “So if a dark wizard uses someone else’s blood to cast a personal protection spell and then kills that person…”

“Exactly.” Snape turns his cup around in his hands. “Then what recourse do we have against such a spell?”

The pieces fall into place with terrible, startling clarity. “Voldemort.”

“And if the Dark Lord were to weave other dark spells into such blood magic?” Snape prompts slowly.

“Then those protection spells would be nearly impossible to break.”

“Therein lies our problem.” Snape sets his teacup down. “I assume the Headmaster has told you about the Dark Lord’s Horcruxes?”

Harry nods. His mouth feels very dry.

“Then you recognise the magnitude of the task set before us.”

“But Dumbledore— The Headmaster said they could be destroyed. We just have to find them.” After all, the man destroyed Gaunt’s ring. Surely Snape knows that.

“Yes, but at what cost?”

Oh. Harry feels nauseated. “His hand. He was injured trying to destroy the ring.”

“And Albus Dumbledore is undoubtedly one of the most powerful wizards alive today. If that is the price we must pay for the destruction of a solitary Horcrux, then I am not certain we can afford it.” Snape shakes his head; his voice is sad.

Something else occurs to Harry then, and it feels as though someone’s taken a knife to his chest. “He’s dying, isn’t he?” His voice isn’t his voice. It’s too soft, too breathless, but he doesn’t care. He braces himself, although he already knows the answer.

Snape merely nods. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man look so tired.

Voldemort is truly terrifying. And, if he’s gone to such lengths to conquer death, Harry worries he hasn’t a hope to defeat him.

“And finding the remaining Horcruxes,” Snape continues, “is another matter altogether. Rest assured, the Dark Lord wove as much protective magic into each Horcrux as they provide for him.” Snape is looking at Harry now. He can feel the weight of the man’s stare heavy and warm on his skin

“But you think there is another way? Something else we can do to break down those spells and destroy them?” Harry asks, trying to ignore the strange flutter he feels in his stomach. Snape hasn’t looked away; his eyes are very dark.

“And ultimately allow us to kill the Dark Lord, himself.” The man nods. “There has to be. Magic can be exceptionally powerful, Mr. Potter. You know that. But there is always a balance. And I cannot believe that our world would allow for the creation of such dark spells without a way to undo them.” Snape’s voice is low and almost reverent. It sends a shiver of something down Harry’s spine.

He shifts in his chair and looks down. “I can’t do this alone.”

Snape reaches out suddenly, unexpectedly, and trails one cool fingertip along his jaw. He cups Harry’s chin in his hand, forcing him to look at him again. The touch is not gentle, but something flashes in Snape’s eyes that makes Harry’s skin heat. “Believe me,” Snape says slowly. “You are not the only person who wants the Dark Lord dead. And you are not alone.”

Harry nods, and Snape drops his hand, but he does not pull away. Though they are not touching (not quite) they are sitting very close. His eyes flicker just briefly to Snape’s lips; they are dry and chapped and parted just so. Harry’s entire body feels tight; suddenly it’s hard to breathe. He realises he is staring at the curve of the man’s jaw, the pale column of his throat.

Snape must notice it too, because he leans back abruptly, pushes his chair away from the desk (away from Harry) with a loud scrape. “I do believe that’s quite enough for tonight, Mr. Potter.”

Harry swallows thickly but grabs his things and hurries out the door.

* * * * *

  
That night, Harry pulls the curtains around his bed and draws his legs tightly to his chest. It isn’t happening. No, surely, it’s not happening. He’s not getting hard thinking about Snape.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? He can’t _stop_ thinking about Snape. He can’t stop thinking about the way Snape’s skin felt when it brushed against his. He can’t stop thinking about the intensity of the man’s eyes, or the thrum of his power as it sparks and crackles whenever Harry is close enough to feel it. He can’t stop thinking about the pale line of Snape’s throat or the muted pink of his lips.

And he can’t stop thinking about Snape having sex.

The image is burned across his mind (white hot and painfully sharp), and when he closes his eyes, he can only see it more clearly. It’s been weeks, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t make it go away. (Snape naked and moving on top of that other boy.)

Everything feels out of his control. The images slide down his spine; they flood his veins with a warmth that tightens in his stomach and pools between his legs.

It makes him sick and angry and confused. But his cock is so hard it aches. Harry tries to tell himself it’s only natural. He’s a teenager. Of course images of sex turn him on. It isn’t Snape. It’s the sex. It would happen to anyone.

But he finds himself imagining what it would be like to taste Snape's breath and feel his hands on his skin (sliding down his chest, over his hips, between his legs). He pictures the man above him, Snape’s skin on his skin, his tongue in his mouth, the man’s hands on his hips. And Harry tries to will the thoughts away, but it’s no use.

He groans in disgust. He has only just admitted that he _might_ be gay. And suddenly he’s jealous. Jealous of that boy in Snape’s memory. And jealous of Snape for having what he wanted at a time when Harry has barely deciphered his own feelings.

He slips a hand down into his pyjama bottoms, curling his fingers around his cock.

It doesn’t take long. He bites his lip to keep from crying out, as warm wetness pulses over his palm and onto his belly.

Afterward, as Harry lies shaking and struggling to catch his breath, he feels the mortification set in, the unease, the shame. He pulls his pillow over his head and mutters a cleaning charm. _Oh God... What has he done?_ He's just come thinking about Snape. Greasy, sadistic, Death Eating Snape.

But Snape’s not a Death Eater anymore. Harry knows this. And he also knows that Snape’s done nothing but try to help him recently (to make him stronger, more prepared). Harry’s mind drifts back to their recent interactions. Snape hasn’t been so rude. He hasn’t been so scathing. Snape is on his side. He wants to help.

And Snape, on more than one occasion, has actually called him Harry.

* * * * *

  
 _14 November_

The boy is on the floor again.

Snape sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

Though Potter is improving, he is still far too emotional, too incapable of compartmentalizing his thoughts enough to conceal them. Still, Snape has to admit that the boy is trying. That much is clear, and, even though Potter now knows things about him that could forever damage Snape’s reputation, it appears the boy has no intention of revealing them to the student body.

For once, it seems, Snape will benefit from Potter’s lauded Gryffindor integrity.

He watches as Potter sits up on his knees, pushing his glasses back on his nose. He is breathing hard; his fringe is stuck to his forehead with sweat. Snape holds out his hand without thinking. Potter looks a bit startled but takes it, allowing Snape to pull him to his feet.

Potter’s hand is warm and soft. Softer, perhaps, than a boy’s should be.

They are standing very close now; Snape can feel the boy’s body heat hot against his skin. Potter seems to notice too. He blushes becomingly, but does not step away. Snape’s chest feels very tight.

His eyes fall just briefly to Potter’s lips, and he watches as the boy’s gaze drops to his own mouth, even as his cheeks flush pink.

Until this very moment (even after everything), Snape would still have sworn that he’s never regarded the boy with anything other than mutual antipathy or, at the very least, healthy ambivalence. Surely he’s never found himself admitting that those eyes (green like mint like malachite like jade) are not very much like Lily’s at all. Surely he’s never noticed the smoothness of Potter’s pale skin or the curve of his slender throat. And surely his own skin hasn’t felt so hot when looking at the boy.

Snape closes his eyes; coldness (tinged with something else entirely) floods his veins to pool in his stomach.

The boy is too close. His cheeks are too pink. And something entirely unfamiliar, unsettling, exciting twists in his stomach, skitters across his skin.

He wants to kiss Harry Potter.

Oh God.

The Boy Hero sways forward then, rocking slightly onto the balls of his feet. Snape pulls back, for a moment believing he won’t do it; he isn’t really going to kiss _this_ student. He isn’t really going to kiss Harry Potter.

But then he is leaning down, and soft, pink lips meet his own, and he _is_ doing it. He keeps waiting for the rational part of his brain to kick in, to tell him to stop, that this is wrong. He doesn’t like children; he doesn’t like students; he doesn’t like _Potters..._

But nothing happens, except the push and press of the boy’s mouth as it moves against his own.

The kiss is hesitant, tentative. Snape can feel the uncertainty there, the caution, but it is tinged with want, a hunger building just below the surface, white hot and blindingly exquisite.

Potter moans, a hint of a sound, and opens his mouth, traces Snape’s lips with his tongue.

Snape is intensely aware of Potter's size, this small, too thin boy who is driving him insane. After all, he doesn’t do this. He reads. He researches. He invents poisons and teaches adolescents about chemistry and basic brewing techniques. He doesn’t go about kissing teenagers. Especially teenagers who happen to also be Boy Heroes, Saviours of the Wizarding world.

No. He doesn’t do this at all.

Snape can feel the extraordinary amount of power thrumming just below the surface of Potter’s skin. It pricks like magic down his spine and makes him dizzy. Snape thinks he might be sick.

Potter wriggles impossibly closer, pressing himself against the length of his body, and Snape feels the distinct line of an erection hard against his thigh.

 _Oh God._

It is enough; the reality of the situation slams home.

Nausea swirls in his stomach; Snape is horrified. He pulls away abruptly, forcing his lips (still warm and wet from Potter’s mouth) to curl, to sneer.

Potter doesn’t move, but his eyes blink open, owlish behind his spectacles and clouded with arousal. Then he smiles, a dreamy little lopsided smile.

Snape narrows his eyes in disdain (though at the boy or at himself, he does not know).

“What, exactly, do you think you're doing?” he hisses, voice low, deadly.

“I, um, I...” Potter stammers, confusion colouring his features.

“Get out, Mr. Potter. And, in the future, you'll do well to control your hormonal impulses and remember that I am your professor.”

“I, I'm sorry...”

Potter falters again, but he does not turn to leave. He hesitates briefly (a glance backwards) and, for one short moment, uncertainty marks his small frame. But then he actually moves to take a step toward him.

Snape’s fingers itch for his wand (but whether to turn it on the boy or himself, again, he cannot say). “What don't you understand?” Snape’s voice is barely a whisper, but hopefully it still manages to cut to the core. “Even Boy Heroes don't get to force themselves on others simply to satisfy their baser urges and...curiosities.”

His words have the desired effect. Hurt flashes in Potter’s green eyes.

The boy’s mouth opens, but he shuts it again quickly; he looks like he wants to protest, but Snape sneers, and Harry bites his lip, drops his gaze, and turns to slip out the door.

Snape collapses into a chair. He _Accio_ s a crystal tumbler from the sideboard and reaches for the decanter of Scotch. The images from the preceding quarter of an hour flash before his eyes, jagged and mirror sharp.

Snape can count his past lovers on a single hand. And he’s never been so overwhelmed, so undone by the smallest brush of skin, the slightest gust of breath against his lips.

It was so much easier when he simply detested James Potter's son.

Snape sits awake and stares at the fire for a long time. He won’t be able to sleep. Potter is everywhere. He is inside his skin, inside his mouth, and inside his mind. It is at once paralyzing, devastating, and positively terrifying.

* * * * *

  
Snape is not a nice man. Harry knows this, but still he is shaky and dizzy and wonders if he’ll ever be able to catch his breath again. Everything feels out of focus, like he is underwater, staring up from a pool or well for something shimmering but just out of reach.

Surely Snape has to care a little bit. Doesn’t he?

Harry tallies up the evidence. It is there, under all the hatred and unfairness and mutual hostility.

Snape has saved his life more times than he can count. That surely means something. Then there are the increasingly...tolerable Occlumency lessons. And, when Harry saw Snape’s memories (saw Snape naked and exposed and fucking) he hadn't reacted with the unrestrained fury that Harry had expected. He hadn’t even punished him for using the spell. _That_ has to mean something.

Then, of course, there is the kiss.

He kissed Snape. And Snape kissed him back.

Harry returns to the Common Room distracted. He touches his fingers to his lips, remembering the feel of Snape's mouth there.

He feels as though he’s awaking from a very strange dream, but, at the same time, he feels strangely...relieved. Relieved that all the tension, all the hatred, all the antagonism had been because of this...

He and Snape have always been...connected. Harry knows this. But now he thinks he understands why they’ve always gotten under each other’s skin. The line between hatred and…something else is evidently a blurry one.

Harry stares into the fire, replaying the preceding events over and over again in his head. It felt _right,_ and even though Snape kicked him out, Harry can’t help but hope that the other man felt it too.

Harry is so wrapped up in his thoughts that he doesn’t even notice when Ginny sits down beside him. He jumps slightly when she stretches her legs out across his lap, but recovers quickly, smiling absently and trailing a finger along her calf, tracing the line of freckles there. Ginny is barefoot (small toes wiggling in the firelight).

Harry finds himself wondering what Snape’s feet look like, and that thought alone is enough to make his head spin.

“What's going on, Harry?” Ginny's voice startles him. “You seem distracted tonight.”

“Oh, yeah. A bit,” he answers noncommittally.

Ginny laughs and inches closer, placing one pale hand on his thigh.

Her petite frame, creamy skin, long legs are appealing in an aesthetic way. He recognises this. But they do nothing for him…they do nothing _to_ him.

At some other time, perhaps, that realisation might have shocked him, but now it simply seems like a fact that took far too long for him to notice.

“I think I'm just tired,” he says. “I'm going to head up to bed.” He stands, dumping Ginny's legs to the floor.

“Wait, what?” she protests. “It's only half seven.”

“Yeah. Goodnight, Gin.” Harry knows she is disappointed, and he knows she expects more from him, but there isn’t much he can do about that.

He climbs the stairs slowly, his thoughts still swimming. Everything feels muted, out of focus, surreal.

Harry lies awake for a long time, distinctly aware that nothing will ever be the same again. A line has been drawn, dividing his life into two sections: before he kissed Snape and after.

* * * * *

  
When Harry appears at Snape's door for his Occlumency lesson the following Monday, he is hopeful. His body is tense, jittery, wire-taut. And his blood thrums with anticipation.

Sure, the man yelled at him and threw him out the last time they'd been together, but that wasn’t unexpected.

The kiss had obviously taken them both by surprise.

It wasn’t what either of them would have chosen. Harry knows that. They’d be absurd to want this. But, now that it has happened, there isn’t anything to do about it.

But, if Harry expected anything to be markedly different about their interactions, he is sorely disappointed. If anything, Snape is more ruthless than ever, prying into Harry’s thoughts even when it is clear his defences are entirely down.

Harry pushes back as hard as he can, visualising his magic, forcing it through the holes between his memories. But Snape pushes harder, working his way into the corners of his mind, slipping through his thoughts with apparent ease.

However, when an image of their last session flits across his mind (Harry clinging limpet-like to Snape, his lips pressed clumsily to his), Snape pulls back immediately, leaving Harry flushed and breathless.

Even Snape appears flustered, and, in a moment of real daring, Harry whispers, “I can’t stop thinking about it, you know.”

When Snape says nothing, Harry takes a hopeful step forward.

But the look on the man’s face stops him cold: sheer horror, quickly schooled into loathing and disgust.

Harry feels a twinge deep in his chest. He isn’t sure what he had expected, but the outright expression of hatred hurts. “I, um...” He looks up pleadingly.

Snape’s eyes are cold. “You are beneath me, Mr. Potter. When I look at you, I feel nothing more than revulsion and disgust.”

“But—” Harry tries, not even sure what he wants to say.

“What happened between us,” Snape continues, his voice like ice, “was nothing more than an unfortunate lapse of judgment. It meant nothing.”

“You had to feel it,” Harry says. “You had to feel _something._ ” It is suddenly imperative that Snape had, that he hadn’t been the only one.

“I felt nothing.” The man’s face is completely expressionless, devoid of emotion. “Except, perhaps, the residual effects of lack of sleep and prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus curse. Now, you've taken up enough of my time. I trust you can find your way back to your tower.”

Words can wound, of course. And Snape’s words have always hurt the worst of all. Harry wonders if the man’s tongue doesn’t slice the inside of his mouth.

But there is nothing he can say in response.

* * * * *

  
It’s odd. It isn’t like he'd actually _had_ Snape to begin with (and how does he miss something that was never actually his?). There is just a kiss (one, life-altering kiss), a few civil conversations, and memories (the memories that Harry has replayed over and over again in his head at night).

But it is as if his entire world has been knocked off its axis.

He can’t sleep. He can’t eat. He can’t concentrate. And he can’t seem to get rid of the persistent ache in his chest. It is muted and dull but always there (like an old wound, a scar beneath his ribs).

And Harry’s control over his magic is worse than ever.

Hermione is the first to notice. They are partnered together in Charms, working on minor _Incendio_ spells.

“I just don't know where Snape gets off!” Harry fumes. “Twenty-four inches on mind control by next lesson _and_ another twelve on instances of its use during the first war!”

“Harry,” Hermione responds calmly, waving her wand in an intricate loop. “You of all people should understand how crucial this information is. I think Snape is being quite reasonable this time.”

Harry scowls while Hermione's blue flame flashes brilliantly, incinerating her scrap of parchment then disappearing as quickly.

He knows that it isn’t actually Snape's assignment that’s upsetting him. “Well, he didn't have to be such a prick about it, is all. And did you see how he fawned over Malfoy today?” Harry rolls his eyes. “It was enough to make me sick. You’d think the sun shines out of his arse, the way Snape praises his shield charms. Hell, I can do that in my sleep.”

“Harry!” Hermione looks rather scandalised.

“Well I can.”

She sighs dramatically.

Harry mutters _“Incendio”_ and waves a hand absently, not bothering with his wand. The flame that erupts in front of them shoots several feet in the air, destroying the scrap of sacrificial parchment and half their workspace as well. The flames would have taken out the entire desk had Hermione not cast an equally powerful _Aguamenti_ in time.

She casts a quick drying charm and expertly mends the tabletop.

Were it not for a few stunned onlookers and two pairs of unfortunately singed eyebrows, Flitwick might not have even noticed.

“Oh, good Heavens!” the diminutive professor admonishes. “I see we're a bit too enthusiastic with our wand waving. No one is hurt? Good. Now, remember, it's just a gentle swish and flick with the incantation.”

Hermione nods dutifully.

Harry decides not to mention that he hadn't actually been using his wand.

Once the class is again focussed on their work, Hermione rounds on him, eyes flashing. He knows that look and ducks his head.

“What the _hell_ was that, Harry?” she hisses.

“I don’t know,” he says softly. “I guess I'm just a bit distracted today.”

“Distracted? _Distracted!”_ She practically shrieks, before lowering her voice again. “Your magic is out of control! I can feel it from here.” Her voice is still low but shrill; she is pale with anger. “And do you realise that you did that wandlessly?” She adds in a whisper.

“I, er, yeah. I can do a lot of things without my wand now.”

Hermione looks uncharacteristically disconcerted for a moment, before taking a deep breath. She smoothes her expression again, nodding once. “What kind of magic?”

“I don’t know,” he repeats lamely. “It depends.”

“It depends!” Her hands are on her hips, and she is glaring. “Harry, what's happened? Is it Voldemort?”

“No, no,” he quickly assures her. “It's nothing like that.”

“Then _what_ is it?” she demands, in a tone that means she won’t let up until she has some answers.

Harry looks away. He really doesn’t want to get into this. And what is he supposed to say? That he kissed Snape, and now he can’t get the bastard out of his head?

“Harry, what magic?” she asks again, pressing her lips together.

“Like I said, it really just depends. Most of the time I don’t even realise I’m doing it.”

Hermione looks more than a little appalled. “Harry, you _do_ understand how significant this is? Many wizards go their entire lives without performing any deliberate wandless magic.”

“Well, I'm not actually doing it deliberately, am I?”

“That's not the point, Harry,” she says slowly. “You are. But apparently you don't even have to think about it.”

He wants to bury his face in his hands. “But it doesn’t work that way. And half the time I can’t actually do it.” Harry sounds petulant even to his own ears, but he is frustrated and angry; the ache in his chest won’t go away, and he isn’t sure he can stand it much longer. “I don’t know what to say, Hermione. It’s all tied to my emotions, I think. That’s when it’s most powerful – when I can feel my magic so strongly. But it’s also when it’s the most difficult to control.”

Hermione nods. “Like today...” she says, almost to herself.

Harry doesn’t answer.

“You have to tell Dumbledore. Or Snape. When’s your next lesson?”

If anything, the ache in his chest intensifies. Snape. He knows he'll have to see him again eventually. And the last thing Harry wants to do is talk to him about the unpredictable state of his magic.

Harry skips his next Occlumency lesson.

* * * * *

  
 _20 December_

Snape manages to ignore the boy for the better part of a month.

He does not cancel Potter’s lessons; Albus would not approve, and he doesn’t need the man’s infuriating interference now. Though, were the Headmaster aware of Snape’s current reservations, his feelings might change.

The thought fills Snape with a perverse sense of satisfaction. After all, Dumbledore can ask no more of him now. Not after everything the man has had him do. After everything he has _still_ to do.

And Dumbledore has spent years throwing them together. Forcing Snape to work with Potter, watch over Potter, teach Potter, protect Potter. That he would now find himself…attracted to the boy is the most twisted of ironies. If Snape weren’t so horrified, he might find it amusing.

He will not practise Occlumency with Potter. Snape cannot handle seeing memories of…that night.

He tells himself it’s too repugnant.

And he is ashamed; he is sickened that he touched the boy at all. But he also recognises the illicit appeal, the desire that simmers just around the edges of his consciousness, tugs at the base of his spine, and forces him to admit that he doesn’t trust himself around Harry Potter anymore.

So, occasionally they duel. But, far more often, he sets the boy at research while he continues to pore over increasingly arcane and pedantic texts.

They focus on blood magic, protection charms, ancient artefacts, and (more recently) reincarnation and resurrection spells. After all, the Dark Lord has gone to grave lengths to defy death. Surely there are equally grave measures available to counter such magic.

Potter has turned into a fair researcher, but all their leads turn out to be dead ends. Still, the boy is quiet and studious and never complains. Snape misses the defiance that used to blaze in those green eyes.

But there is far too much to do to obsess over depraved and inconvenient infatuations. Albus’s condition is worsening, and though Snape knew that was inevitable, he cannot stand by idly and watch. He spends hours in his lab, perfecting potions to palliate the effects of the Horcrux’s curse. But there is no cure. The poison spreads. The Headmaster has six months, maybe a year.

Snape refuses to think about what will happen when he is called upon to uphold the fatal vow he took five months before.

And then there is the Malfoy boy. Snape thinks if he never makes another Unbreakable Vow again it will be too soon. But for once, Bellatrix’s mad idea suited his own interests, and he has never held a personal grudge against Narcissa.

Still, Draco’s stupidity nearly gets the Bell girl and the youngest Weasley boy killed. In fact, if it weren’t for Potter’s quick thinking—

No. Snape doesn’t think about that. Draco is not yet a murderer, and he has vowed to keep it that way.

There is far too much to do; Snape doesn’t have time to consider the paleness of Potter’s skin or the warmth of the boy’s mouth.

Draco is the reason Snape finds himself at Slughorn’s ridiculous Yule Party. The boy skulks about the corridors for the better part of an hour before he finally works up the nerve to crash the festivities. Apparently, Horace hadn’t taken an interest in Draco’s particular talents and did not feel the need to invite him to the celebration.

Snape considers retreating to his chambers. He detests parties and would like to think that even Malfoy cannot get into too much trouble at a social gathering. But Snape knows the boy is desperate, and desperate people do desperate, dangerous things. So, Snape takes a deep breath, resigns himself to enduring his colleagues’ pleasantries, and follows Draco into Slughorn’s rooms.

The party is as horrid as he imagined, but he terrorises a House Elf into bringing him a glass of scotch, finds a corner in which to lurk, and avoids exchanging small talk with as many partygoers as possible.

He’s there to watch Draco, obviously, and he does. But it soon appears (Merlin knows why) that Draco simply _wanted_ to attend the event, and Snape finds himself watching Potter. Of course.

The boy is with the Lovegood girl, of all people. And though Snape knew the two were friends (knew Lovegood accompanied Potter on his suicidal mission to the Department of Mysteries just a year before), it hadn’t occurred to him that the boy would be interested in her beyond friendship. It hadn’t occurred to him that the boy would be interested in _any_ girl in that way.

But Snape tries to ignore the twinge in his stomach when he sees Potter laughing with the girl. After all, the boy’s affairs are none of his concern, and it’s not as though he’s jealous.

Still, he can’t help the feeling that tightens around his chest when he sees Potter leave with her, his hand on the small of her back. Something like sadness presses at the corner of his mind, and he must work to dismiss it.

He remains in the castle over the holidays. There is nothing for him at Spinner’s End (except memories he’d prefer not to revisit over Christmastime). And, as the Dark Lord has found a new use for Pettigrew -- playing warden to God knows what in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor – Snape is blissfully free from His service. It’s a respite he’s certain will not last, but he takes small comforts when he can.

* * * * *

  
Harry keeps the memory of that kiss stored away in the corner of his mind. The image is rough, crystal sharp. And though he hoped that time would smooth the edges, dull the sensation, make it fade, nothing has soothed the ache, the persistent pain just behind his ribs.

He remembers the press of Snape’s mouth (dry and warm), the touch of his fingers, the brush of his skin. And there is nothing he can do about it.

His friends think he’s crazy, but they usually do.

Harry ignores their concerned looks and evades their questions, and somehow manages to imply when Ron corners him in the loo one afternoon that he and Luna just might be seeing each other. Ron looks ridiculously relieved ( _‘I was worried about you, mate’_ ), and Harry only feels a bit guilty. They did go to Slughorn’s Christmas party together (though, of course, it was _nothing_ like that), and he doesn’t think Luna will mind.

At night, images flash across his mind; some never seem to go away (white hot flickering behind his eyelids while he sleeps). Snape’s classroom, furtive looks, a fingertip brushed along his wrist. But he knows by now the man doesn’t want him, that he never actually did.

When did he find himself wanting what he had never, under ordinary conditions, considered desirable before?

He hoped, perhaps, it was an infatuation (as twisted and misguided as that would be), but infatuations burn hot and quick (your palm held over a match), and then they're gone. This inexplicable want has been dulled by days and weeks, but it's always there, shimmering just around the edges of his awareness.

Sometimes Harry wonders what would have happened if he’d waited. If he hadn’t taken that chance, stepped forward, pressed his mouth to Snape’s.

What in Merlin’s name had he been thinking? He is a student, painfully inexperienced. He’s James Potter’s son. And Snape has always hated him.

* * * * *

  
Harry sprints through the halls on his way to the dungeons.

He is late to his first lesson of the new term, and he cringes at the thought of what Snape will do to him. The man certainly isn’t above torture, and Occlumency would be just the method.

He rounds a corner at top speed and collides with something. Something solid and warm. Harry hears a soft _‘oomph’_ from somewhere above his head and, knocked off balance by the impact, reaches out blindly to steady himself.

“Mr. Potter, I assume that people usually stand aside in deference, as you barrel down the hallway.” Snape looks down pointedly at where Harry still clings to his arm. “However, I find that the easiest way to arrive at one’s destination is to avoid obstacles.”

Harry lets go quickly, jumping backward. _Oh Lord..._ He tenses and closes his eyes, waiting for Snape to hex him (or worse). When nothing happens, he tentatively opens one eye again. Snape is watching him, but his expression does not reflect the murderous fury Harry expects. Instead, the man appears to regard him with something like wry amusement.

Now that’s odd.

But what is even more unsettling is Harry’s own response. He thought that the time away over the holidays would have tempered the inexplicable attraction he felt toward the Potions Master, but now, standing too close to the man in the empty corridor, he realises with sickening certainty that that is not the case. Something pricks at the base of Harry’s spine, and he takes a deep breath focusing on rise and fall of his chest.

Snape smells of cloves and spice and not at all like a potions lab, and that alone is enough to do disturbing things to Harry’s blood. He feels his cheeks flush and looks down quickly.

“Is it your intention to stand here all evening?” Snape’s voice cuts through the silence. “I was under the impression that you were late for an appointment.”

Harry nods dumbly and decides not to mention that Snape is also running late. Snape moves past him, robes just brushing Harry’s arm, and he turns to follow the man down the hall to the office.

* * * * *

  
Harry finds himself watching Snape. He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t seem to help himself. His eyes seek the man out. In Defence. In the hallways in between classes. At the Head Table during mealtime.

Snape hardly eats, slender hands (delicate, powerful) wielding knife and fork the same way Harry has seen him manipulate instruments in his lab. Yet, although he carves his meat, his vegetables fastidiously, he rarely consumes half of what is on his plate. Harry notices this.

Snape is thin. Too thin. Harry has noticed this too. And he has dark circles under his eyes (Harry knows he does not sleep). But Harry doesn’t sleep either, and he wonders if (when he does) Snape dreams of blood and torture and pain as he does.

Sometimes he thinks he’s going crazy. Watching Snape. Dreaming of Voldemort. But surely it’s what Dumbledore expects (always plotting, always planning). His priority, of course, is that they’re useful – he and Snape. Both pawns in a larger game. After all, they are both just tools – Harry realises this now – honed and put away until needed.

Here, at Hogwarts, he had the illusion of being free. Free to study the courses he chose. Free to pursue whatever career he desired. But he knows it was all a facade. No. Harry has no real choices. And it is clear that Snape has never been gifted with even the illusion of freedom. This is clear every time he stands from the staff table before mealtime is through, thinly concealed grimace marring already harsh features, hand clutching his left forearm.

* * * * *

  
 _9 January_

Potter appears on time for Occlumency. He always does.

The boy doesn’t look at him. Instead, he sets his bag on the floor and stands at the end of his desk, head bowed, waiting.

Snape straightens the stack of parchments he is reading over. His robes are off; they lie neatly folded over the back of his chair. And he’s rolled up his sleeves (just enough) so that the bottom curl of the Mark is visible (dark against white linen and too-pale skin).

He’s done so deliberately.

He wants the boy to see. He wants the boy to remember. He wants the boy to hate him again.

But, instead, he sees Potter’s eyes flicker briefly to his forearm, and then back down to the floor again, a faint smile playing at his lips.

Snape stands, drawing his wand. _“Legilimens.”_

He feels the press of the boy’s magic (golden tinged, limned in light), but he slips through easily. Potter isn’t even trying.

The now familiar images shimmer across his mind. _The single light bulb in a cupboard, illuminating a cot and a too-small boy; the flutter of the snitch, just before it’s caught; the colour of the Dark Lord’s eyes, vivid red in a graveyard that smells of blood._

But then Snape is _there,_ lips parted slightly. And they are kissing.

 _Mouth moving against the boy’s slowly, slickly. Eyes closed, cheeks flushed._

He watches as his own hands slide down, rest in the small of the boy’s back (in a way he is certain they never had). Then Potter’s palm is on his chest, fingers tracing the line of buttons, sliding down his stomach to—

Snape pulls out of Potter’s thoughts abruptly, the force knocking him off balance. He takes a step backward and presses a palm to the surface of his desk.

There are two possibilities.

Either Potter has envisioned – has _fantasised_ about that scenario enough to turn it into memory, or he has actually succeeded in creating a false image to conceal his hidden thoughts.

Both seem unlikely. That the boy would chose _that_ particular scene to replay in his mind or to use as a constructed facade is absurd (incomprehensible, really).

And yet…

He glares at Potter. The boy is flushed and out of breath; he can see the rise and fall of his thin chest as he leans against the wall. But that isn’t the only thing Snape notices.

Potter is hard.

Snape can see the bulge of his erection under the otherwise smooth line of his robes.

Potter tilts his head back, tries to catch his breath. Snape watches his neck, the long column of his throat. Watches his pulse beating under pale skin. The boy’s skin is pink, forehead slicked with sweat, and still the scar stands out (a red and angry slash). Snape can’t help but wonder if it always aches now, like his left arm.

Then Potter lifts his head and looks at him. When he smiles, the brief curve of his lips floods Snape’s veins, his groin with warmth.

“Fuck, Snape,” the boy breathes. And he can’t even bring himself to chastise him for language because Potter has brought a hand down between his legs, and he is _rubbing._

Snape doesn’t think; he can’t think. If he did, he would be horrified; he would take points or hex the boy or throw him out of his office once and for all. Instead, he crosses the room in two long strides. He presses his palms against the wall, arms framing the boy’s face. “Tell me what you want.”

“You. _Christ._ ” He wets his lips. “Isn’t it obvious? I don’t know why, but I want you.” Potter’s mouth is just inches from his own, and his slim hips are rocking, pushing against the heel of his hand.

Snape runs one hand down Potter’s chest (still heaving, still gasping for breath), parts his robes, and— Merlin, what is he doing? He jerks away as if scalded, takes a step backward. “God. Stop. Potter, we can’t.”

The boy frowns (eyes dark, pupils blown). “Of course we can,” he insists, voice rough. “Don’t you see?” But the waver in his voice belies his bravado, and it’s enticing and sickening all at once.

“Go back to your dorm,” Snape manages, voice embarrassingly hoarse. “Touch yourself. Press a finger in your arse.” He can’t believe he’s said the words. Snape hasn’t laid a hand on the boy (not today), but such a comment is surely grounds for termination. Still, the image, the idea is so appealing, so erotic, Snape nearly has to press his own hand between his thighs to stay the spiralling rush of pleasure that threatens to overwhelm.

Potter’s eyes go rather wide, and he gasps. “Oh god, Snape, I’ve never.”

And Snape can’t help himself. “Never had a finger in your arse?” Just the thought of how tight the boy must be is nearly too much.

“No. Never even thought to.” Potter presses his palm between his legs again, and his breath hitches. Snape can’t tear his eyes away. It’s gorgeous.

“Please Potter— Harry. You have to go,” Snape pleads, and his voice sounds thin and desperate.

“I can’t, Snape. I can’t. I’m too close,” Potter says, and Snape must bite his lip, close his eyes. He can’t remember ever being this hard.

Snape steps forward again, reaches out to cover the boy’s hand with his own. Everything shines like glass, sharp and liquid all at once. Potter moans (a soft rush of sound) and slips his hand from beneath Snape’s. And suddenly Snape can feel the warmth of his skin beneath the cloth of his trousers, can feel the line of his cock, hard against his palm.

Potter is trembling as his hips jerk and twitch, pressing up into Snape’s touch. He puts his free hand on the boy’s hip, pushing him back, holding him still, as he continues to stroke up and down. Potter’s jaw is set; his stomach muscles are tense. Then Potter’s eyes snap open, and he’s silent and shaking as he comes into his pants. Snape can feel the dampness spread, warm against his palm, as he moves his fingers over now wet fabric.

Snape’s own cock throbs, as he watches Potter, cheeks pinks, eyes bright and wide and stunned.

And Snape realises two things all at once. Potter came incredibly quickly. As though (Snape shudders at the thought) no one has ever touched him quite like that before. And, touching Potter is perhaps the most exceptionally stupid thing he’s ever done in a lifetime filled with exceptionally stupid things.

So, he does the only thing he can think of. He kicks him out, abruptly and harshly, before he’s even managed to catch his breath.

* * * * *

  
Harry doesn’t remember walking down the corridor and climbing the steps that lead out of the dungeons. But he makes it to the third floor restroom and stands, hands pressed against the washbasin. The porcelain is cool against his palms, and he leans forward, resting his forehead against the mirror. His face is hot, even against the smooth glass.

His entire world is falling apart, unravelling at the seams.

He looks up again, stares at his reflection. Dark hair, pink lips, green eyes, awkward glasses. He’s always looked so…normal, aside from the scar of course. That will never be normal. He pushes his fringe down, covering his forehead momentarily, but it only springs back up again when he moves his hand away.

Still, there is nothing extraordinary, nothing special, except a mark left by a madman when he was only a baby. Nothing Snape would want, nothing that would appeal to him. There is just Harry, who looks like he is about to cry.

He splashes water on his face and forces back the tears because he won’t. Not for Snape.

* * * * *

  
Harry can’t bear the thought of Tuesday and Defence. In fact, he’d rather go six rounds naked with one of Hagrid’s Blast Ended Skrewts. But the time comes, and he can’t for the life of him come up with a half decent excuse.

Ron sympathises (“I know, mate, we all hate the git. And right after breakfast, too”), and Harry follows him through the hallway, feeling not unlike he’s headed to his own execution. He feels sick to his stomach, stretched too thin, and completely, utterly helpless.

He is not sure what he expects – he never is with Snape – but the man says nothing. He does not even look at him.

Snape sets the class to work on Shield Charms and stalks about offering criticism and reproof, but he doesn’t even pause to look at Harry and Ron as he walks past. Harry wishes he would yell and scream, do something.

He is not sure why he does it, but suddenly, desperately he just needs the man to turn, to acknowledge him, to give an indication that he feels anything at all. “Professor Snape,” he says softly, and the man stops, shoulders tense, spine perfectly straight.

When he looks, Snape’s expression is carefully, perfectly blank. But then his eyes flicker (briefly) with something open and recognisable before it’s gone again, replaced by that cold, dead stare as Snape once again schools his features into an emotionless mask. And Harry wants nothing more than to sink into the floor, to curl up in a corner, or perhaps rip his heart out (because maybe then it will stop aching).

“Mr. Potter, do you honestly find our lessons beneath you?” His voice is cruel, and something inside Harry wilts at the sound.

“No, sir.”

“Do you not think that, perhaps more than anyone else in this room, you require such practise?”

His chest hurts; warm wetness pricks at the corners of his eyes. “I do.”

“Then why, might I ask, are you wasting our time?”

“I’m not, I’m—”

“Enough.” Snape holds up a hand. “Weasley, please pair with Mr. Longbottom and Ms. Granger.”

Ron shoots Harry a look that is half horror half pity but practically sprints across the room to where Neville and Hermione are standing. All eyes are on Harry and Snape, and Harry feels something like dread unfurl in his belly.

“Back to work,” Snape says, and the rest of the class reluctantly resumes their spellwork, but Snape does not turn from Harry. He draws his wand, inclines his head. Harry understands; after all, they have duelled many times before. “Shields, Mr. Potter,” he reminds, as though Harry is too slow to have remembered. “If, of course, you can control your…childish impulses long enough to perform one.” His lips curl in clear distaste. “I know it is often difficult for you to restrain yourself.”

The words tighten at his chest; they sear down the lengths of his arms until he can do nothing more than clutch at his wand and wait.

Snape casts _Incarcerous,_ and Harry deflects it easily.

“Shield! Mr. Potter,” Snape spits, and the look of utter disdain in his cold eyes is more than Harry can take. He hardly hears as Snape casts the next spell, but it doesn’t matter. He feels all of his emotion, his anger, his confusion, his sadness coursing through his blood, and all he has to do is hold up a hand.

The shield snaps into place with such power, such strength that Snape’s _Stupefy_ explodes on contact. Shards of magic ricochet off with resounding force, and the sound echoes loudly off the classroom walls. Snape staggers a few steps back.

The other students stop practising to stare, and the room falls deathly quiet; Harry can still feel the vibrations of the spell shivering against his skin. He takes a deep breath, and looks at Snape. The man’s skin is paler than usual, his dark eyes wide. No one speaks.

It is clear his classmates aren’t certain what they’ve just seen, but they all seem to know that it was something magnificent and breathtaking and horrifying. Everyone stands uncomfortably, and the silence weighs on Harry. Only Snape and Harry realise exactly what he’s done.

Harry knows that the majority of the students in his year are still woefully incapable of using wordless magic, even for the simplest of spells.

And wandless magic is another matter entirely.

Wandless magic is not covered in Hogwarts’s curriculum, and many wizards go their entire lives without casting intentional magic without a wand. Snape is uncommonly powerful, but Harry isn’t sure he can cast a shield spell wandlessly; at least, he has never seen him do so.

And now he’s just managed to cast an exceptionally powerful shield charm without using wand or words.

Harry has no idea what this might mean. But it cannot be an entirely good thing.

* * * * *

  
That evening, when Terry Boot looks at him from across the library (holds his gaze for the space of breath), Harry makes a decision.

Ten minutes later, they are climbing the spiralling steps that lead to Ravenclaw Tower.

But, in the end, it is nothing like Harry expects (nothing like he wants).

The boy’s hair is all wrong; his eyes do nothing to the heat of Harry’s blood. And, when Terry pushes him against the wall (hands fumbling at his zip), Harry feels none of the white hot tension that should vibrate beneath his skin.

So he gasps out a _‘God… I’m sorry. I can’t’_ and flees back to his dormitory (where he envisions pale hands, a brutal tongue, and black eyes so dark he gets lost in them).

* * * * *

  
Harry sits on the lake’s edge, palms pressed flat to the sandy shore. The water never fails to bring back memories (shadow lined but glassy smooth). Cedric laughing, eyes bright and alive ( _alive_ ).

He’s replayed that night in his head one thousand times because surely there was something he could have done.

But every time things end the same. He can still hear the startled gasp as his vision clouds with sickly green.

Harry tastes blood and realises he’s bitten his lip so hard he’s broken the skin. He digs his fingers into the dirt, feeling the grit beneath his fingernails. Some days are harder than others. Some days he wonders if he’ll ever feel right again.

He closes his eyes and tries to focus on the beat of his heart, the rush of water as it laps against the rocks. He swallows thickly, wondering if the knot in his throat, his chest will ever go away; it shouldn’t be this hard to breathe.

Suddenly, Harry hears the crunch of gravel, feels the slice of shadow slip over his shoulder. He does not turn around.

“Surely, Mr. Potter,” Snape’s voice slides over his skin, “there is something Quidditch related you should be engaged in.”

Harry ignores him, fingers closing around a jagged stone. He flicks it over the water, and it skips twice, ripples marring the smooth surface, before disappearing beneath.

“Or, perhaps,” the man continues after a moment, “I should ask why you are out here alone, away from all your adoring fans.”

The words strike a nerve. Harry clenches his fists, nails biting into his palm; it takes a conscious effort not draw his wand. “Do you actually think that’s what I want?” he asks, trying to keep his voice level. “That I _asked_ for any of this?” His chest feels tight, and he is shaking.

Snape regards him impassively.

Harry takes a deep breath and stands, intending to walk back to the castle, but at Snape’s look, he stops.

“I’m not sure, Potter,” the man says, voice almost soft. “What do you want?”

Harry’s shoulders slump, resentment and anger bleeding away. “I don’t know.”

Snape stares at the lake. “You know you are unhappy, but you do not know what you want.”

“I want people to stop dying for me. Is that too much to ask?” His voice isn’t his voice; it’s too breathless, too shrill. But he doesn’t care. “Three people died today. In Yorkshire. Did you know that?”

The man nods. “And I knew there was to be a raid. Wouldn’t that make me more culpable than you?”

Harry pales. “You knew? And you didn’t—”

“Nothing. I did nothing,” Snape finishes for him. Harry can hear the self-loathing in his voice.

“Why?”

“Because there was _nothing_ I could do, of course. Just like there was nothing you could do.”

“But—”

“No.” Snape cuts him off again. “You must stop trying to take responsibility for everything the Dark Lord does. It was not your fault that he decided to murder three Muggles today. It will never be your fault.” And, with that, Snape turns and toward the castle, robes billowing.

* * * * *

  
That night Harry wanders about the castle well after curfew. He doesn’t even bother with his invisibility cloak; he can’t bring himself to care.

There is no one in the corridors, not even Filch’s infernal cat, as he makes his way to the Astronomy Tower.

Snape is there, of course – somehow he knew he would be – and Harry knows his lungs shouldn’t feel so tight, his skin shouldn’t feel so hot. But there is a strange electric tension in the air that twines round his chest, fills his mouth, and makes it hard to swallow.

The man leans against the stone ledge with practiced nonchalance. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t appear to notice Harry at all.

Harry stands in the shadows for a long moment. He thinks he can’t do it, that he will turn, run down the steps, retreat to his dormitory.

But then Snape speaks, and his voice roots Harry to the spot. “Mr. Potter, how…extraordinary to see you up here at this late hour.” The words slip from his mouth, unfurl between them, soft and smooth and with only a murmur of disdain.

But there is something else underneath it all. Something that sets Harry on edge. He can feel it in his teeth, in his fingers, at the base of his spine, but Snape doesn’t look at him.

“I don’t suppose I need to remind you that it is well past curfew.”

Harry takes a hesitant step forward.

Snape stares over the parapet, gaze straight ahead. The cold light of the moon casts pale shadows across already pale skin.

Harry holds his breath, takes another step. ( _I can’t stop thinking about you.)_ “I want—”

With that, Snape finally turns around, his expression blank. “What we want, Mr. Potter, rarely matters. Surely you, of all people, have come to realise that.”

“But I—”

The man holds up a hand (white fingers, long and thin). “I will excuse this…transgression, if you assure me you will _not_ attempt it again.”

“Yes, sir.” He knows that Snape is referring to more than his midnight walk, and he nods, turning to go. The night air is brisk and cold, but it is nothing compared to the feeling in his chest.

But all week, Harry can feel Snape _watching_ him. The man doesn’t call on him in class, doesn’t acknowledge him at all. Still, Harry can feel Snape’s eyes on him.

Harry knows that he should hate him (more now, perhaps, that ever before). He’d been foolish to put himself in such a position. To allow Snape to hurt him. But even as he remembers the sting of humiliation, the ache of rejection (standing there exposed and wanting and completely, utterly refused) Harry still imagines Snape at night when everyone else has gone to bed.

* * * * *

  
 _1 February_

The boy is waiting for him when he returns from his rounds. He’s sitting, cross-legged in front of his door, Defence textbook open on his lap. He looks positively dreadful (eyes red-rimmed, pale skin far paler than usual). It’s clear he hasn’t been getting enough sleep. And, though Snape tells himself he doesn’t care, something clenches deep inside his chest at the look of haunted resignation on Potter’s face.

Snape’s been watching him, of course. He’s always watching him. And he knows he never smiles anymore.

“Is your scar bothering you, Mr. Potter?” He tries to sound annoyed, but he merely sounds tired. He’s so bloody tired.

“What?” Potter’s eyes narrow briefly in confusion, and he touches his fingers to his forehead as though considering. “Oh. No. I hardly notice it anymore, really.”

“Then what, might I ask, are you doing outside my rooms in the middle of the night?”

“I can’t sleep,” the boy says standing, as though that explains everything.

Snape closes his eyes. He feels a headache threatening and wants nothing more than to retire to his rooms for the night. “Madam Pomfrey, then. I’m sure if you explained your situation, she would provide you with a dose of Dreamless Sleep.”

But Potter is already shaking his head. “No. You know I can’t do that.”

Snape sighs as he unwards his door, and even though he knows he should stop the boy, he says nothing as Potter slips past him. Snape doesn’t even bother to pause in his office, moving through the dark room and into his adjoining chambers.

Potter follows without question, and Snape thinks perhaps he never really had a choice. After all, he seldom does.

He waves his wand at the hearth, watching the dying embers spark to life, and looks at Potter. The boy stands just inside the door, shoulders slumped, hands shoved into his pockets. The flickering firelight casts shadows on his face. He looks exhausted and very young.

“What do you want, Potter?”

“Don’t you know?”

Snape rubs a hand across his face. “Contrary to popular belief, I am not always reading your mind.”

That earns a soft laugh, and the boy ducks his head. “Yeah,” Potter says after a moment. “I can feel it now. The press of your magic.”

Snape nods. He knew this, but it doesn’t explain what Potter is doing in his rooms at half one in the morning. “You shouldn’t be here, Harry,” he says after a long moment when the boy has said nothing else.

Potter takes two steps forward then stops, glancing back at the door uncertainly. When he looks at Snape again, his eyes are so green. “That’s just it, though. Can’t you see?” And his voice is calm and hopeful and entirely resolute all at once.

Snape frowns. Potter is still looking at him, and he feels awkward, on display, in a way he hasn’t in some time.

“There’s something between us, Snape,” Potter says softly. “And I’m not sure I understand it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

Snape is not sure when it happened. When he lost control of the situation entirely, but he must quell the urge to step back until his hips hit the desk, to stammer like a schoolboy, to turn and flee to his bedroom and just hope that the boy goes away. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Potter.” But the words don’t sound as convincing as he’d like.

The boy sighs. Snape thinks he does exasperation rather well. “Of course you do.” Potter moves a step closer and (Snape can’t believe his gall) reaches out to brush a finger along his cheek.

Snape holds his breath, goes completely still.

He can’t move. He can’t breathe. He can’t decide if he should scream and yell, or hex the boy, or lean into the warmth of his touch.

Potter sighs, brows furrowing in confusion, and drops his hand. “Don’t you understand?”

Snape doesn’t understand anything at all.

“Doesn’t it feel this way to you?” Potter tries again. His voice is pitched a bit high, and there’s an edge of desperation there that Snape hadn’t noticed before.

Snape knows this is his opportunity to tell the boy off once and for all. To make sure he never tries anything like this again. After all, it’s wrong. It’s immoral. It’s a violation of at least half a dozen rules, and it’s no doubt entirely illegal.

But Snape says nothing. Instead, he stands stock still while Potter reaches out again. His hand hangs in the air for a fraction of a second (a moment pulled taut), and still Snape says nothing. This time the boy’s palm falls to his shoulder, a warm, heavy weight against the fabric of Snape’s robe.

Potter exhales. “Can’t you feel it?” he asks again, and though his voice wavers, it is Snape who feels shaky and out of focus.

“I…”

But the boy is standing too close, and though he tells himself he won’t, he knows he’s going to touch him. So when Potter slides his hand down to curl his fingers in the folds of Snape’s robe, he does not pull away. “It’s not… We can’t—”

“Shush,” the boy says (a gentle rush of sound that whuffs across Snape’s lips).

And then they are kissing.

It’s not the best kiss Snape has ever had – and those have been few. Despite everything it clearly took for Potter to come down here tonight, his mouth moves uncertainly, hesitantly. It is clumsy and unpractised. Their teeth knock, and Potter doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. Still, Snape is _so_ aroused (red-veined warmth, a flash of heat).

Someone gasps, and Snape realises to his mortification it was him. But Potter doesn’t seem to mind. He presses impossibly closer and clutches at Snape’s biceps so hard there’ll be bruises. Snape doesn’t care. He pulls back slightly to nip a line down the boy’s jaw, and his skin is soft and smooth and perfect, perfect…

Potter hisses and rocks forward. Snape can feel the hot hardness of an erection against his thigh. It’s almost more than he can bear (and certainly more than he deserves).

“Potter— Harry.” Snape steps back, holds the boy at arm’s length. “Stop. We can’t.”

Potter blinks up at him, eyes dazed behind his glasses, mouth swollen and pink. He looks ridiculous. He looks beautiful. “Yes we can,” he says as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. He rocks forward again onto the balls of his feet, and Snape wants nothing more than to kiss him until he’s breathless and shaking.

“No. It’s wrong.” Snape forces himself to take a step back, out of the boy’s grasp.

Potter’s frown is petulant and childish.

“You’re too young.”

“Right, Snape.” The scowl turns mutinous. “And how old, exactly, would you like me to be?” The boy’s hands curl into fists, and Snape can literally feel the magic radiating off his body. “Seventeen? Eighteen? Thirty-two?” He laughs, a harsh and bitter sound. “Well I’ve news for you. I’m most likely not going to live until seventeen, much less eighteen or thirty. So, if I’m too _young_ to have this now, then you’re telling me I will never be old enough!” Potter is shouting now, and Snape can do nothing but stand there, shoulders tense and spine straight, and listen.

“Hell,” he continues after a moment. “You most likely won’t live until I’m seventeen. So what’s the problem, Snape? I’m old enough to die, but I’m not old enough to kiss you? To touch you? To be with someone I really like?”

Snape closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. _Someone I really like._ Those words, on top of everything, seem impossible. And Snape has to wonder if this isn’t all an absurd dream because surely the boy can’t mean what he says.

But Potter is still staring at him, eyes open, desperate, and…wanting, and it doesn’t take mind magic to know that, at the very least, he believes it. That alone is so remarkable, so unfathomable, that Snape finds himself stepping forward again.

Potter’s mouth is warm and soft, and he curves a hand around the boy’s head, twists his fingers in dark, unruly hair. Potter moans, and Snape moves closer, feeling the length of the boy’s body against his own.

Surely, he’s damning not only himself but Potter as well, but, right now, with their hips pressed together, and his tongue in his mouth, he doesn’t care.

After all, they are no doubt already damned anyway.

* * * * *

  
Harry must be going crazy. He’s certain of it, lying in bed at night (thinking of Snape) exhausted but afraid to fall asleep for fear of what he’ll dream.

Things are better during the day. Better when he remains in motion. Going to classes, practising spellwork, talking to his friends.

And then there are the evenings he spends working with Snape. They still research, and Harry loves to watch the man’s mouth, pressed in a thin line when he’s thinking, and his eyes (nearly black and so intense). He watches his hands, his fingers, long and pale, as they brush across lines of text or curl around a quill. And Harry can’t help but imagine what they feel like on his body. It makes his skin flush; it makes his cock hard, and Harry thinks that Snape _must know_. He would be embarrassed, but he notices how the man’s breath quickens, how a faint pink seeps across his cheekbones, so he thinks that, maybe, it’s okay.

They don’t talk much during these sessions. There’s too much to do. And though Harry is still not entirely sure what Snape is looking for, they must be getting closer. He knows from the way Snape scribbles even more furiously than usual. He knows because it’s been days since Snape has lamented the dismal selection afforded by the Restricted Section. And he knows because sometimes (when they’ve worked for an hour or so) Snape will set his quill down. He will close whatever text he’s working on and move to the sofa.

The first time, Harry didn’t understand; he didn’t know what the man expected. But now he finishes whatever passage he is reading and closes his own book. Then he goes to sit beside Snape.

Sometimes they kiss. Sometimes Snape merely pets his hair. Other times Snape pulls him close, wraps one arm about his waist, and strokes his hand up and down his arm, across his chest, or over his stomach. Snape has not touched him again like he did that night.

But even the smallest of contact is enough to make him terribly aroused. And Harry knows that Snape _must_ know. He sees the man’s eyes fall to his lap, feels the teasing touch of fingers along his waistband, and Harry shivers, shifts his hips, and hopes that maybe this time Snape will do more.

But he hasn’t yet.

Tonight Snape reaches a hand out, and Harry takes it, sits down beside him, feels the warmth of the man’s thigh pressed against his own.

“What do you want, Potter?” Snape asks. And even though he’s asked this question before, Harry still isn’t sure what the answer is. _Your hands on my skin. A world without Voldemort. Your mouth, your tongue. A chance to live a normal life. To touch you…_

“You.” The word still feels scratchy and foreign on his lips. The concept is so unreal, so impossible, and yet, somehow, it’s the only thing that makes sense.

Snape sighs. His hand falls from Harry’s shoulder, and he rubs his fingers against his temples. “I don’t understand.”

Harry thinks for someone so intelligent, the man can be incredibly dense at times.

“I’ve never wanted anything this much. In fact, I’ve never actually wanted anyone before.” The moment he says it, he knows it true. Though Cho and Ginny are beautiful, and Terry wanted _him,_ he was never interested in them, had never wanted them in this way. This aching, disorienting, terrifying way that is so painful, so brilliant it hurts in the space between his lungs.

“You could have anyone.”

But Harry is already shaking his head. “I don’t want anyone. I just want you.” Snape’s back is perfectly straight. He looks ill. Harry reaches out slowly, tentatively, and covers the man’s hand with his. His skin is soft and warm. Snape looks down at their hands curiously, as though he is not sure how this has happened.

Harry doesn’t know himself.

“You’re sure.”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

[](http://www.snapepotterfests.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/Zarkir-1.jpg)

* * * * *

  
Hermione is frowning at _The Prophet_ when Harry comes down to breakfast in the morning. “What’s going on?” he asks Ron, reaching for the scrambled eggs. He isn’t hungry, but it is easier to fill his plate than explain why he isn’t eating.

“Dunno,” Ron says, munching on a piece of toast. “She won’t say.”

“I will say. I’m just not done yet,” Hermione responds from behind the paper.

Ron shrugs. Harry pushes eggs around on his plate.

A few minutes later, Hermione puts _The Prophet_ down and sighs deeply. Harry and Ron both look at her.

“It’s horrible. Two guards were killed at the Ministry of Magic last night.”

“What? Where?” Harry practically jumps to his feet, adrenaline rushing through his veins like magic.

“At the Ministry. I just said that.” Hermione looks at him like he’s a particularly dense first-year.

“I know. But where in the Ministry? What were they guarding?”

“I don’t know.” She picks up the paper again. “It doesn’t say.”

Harry bites his lip; everything feels sharper now, clearer. “It was Voldemort. He’s trying to get into the Department of Mysteries.

Ron gives him a sympathetic look. “We know he wanted to get in, but the prophecy is gone. There’s nothing else there.”

“I think he might be right,” Hermione interjects.

Ron opens his mouth to speak, but Hermione holds up a hand. “Wait. There’s more. Besides the two guards, they also found another body. A child.”

Harry feels ill. He sets his fork down beside his plate.

“Winston Goyle. Eight years old,” Hermione continues. “They found him alone inside the Department of Mysteries.”

Harry glances at the Sytherin table; Goyle isn’t at breakfast. “A brother?”

“Cousin, I believe.”

Harry nods. “What killed him?”

Hermione scans the article once more. “I don’t know. It only says he was found dead this morning.”

Harry takes a deep breath, but it does not calm the furious pounding of his heart. There is something Voldemort wants. Something he didn’t have before, and something he cannot get alone – something he is willing to sacrifice a child for.

* * * * *

  
“What happened to the Goyle boy?”

Snape is bent over his research. He doesn’t bother to look up as Harry flings his bag into the corner and stomps over to stand beside him.

“I see Granger’s been reading _The Prophet_ to you again.”

Harry shrugs. He isn’t going to let Snape bait him. (Besides, the accusation _is_ true this time.) “What happened to him?” he repeats, voice low. “You know. Don’t you?”

Snape closes the text in front of him. When he looks up at Harry, his expression is blank. “While Dumbledore is occupied hunting Horcruxes, I fear the Dark Lord has found something else to fixate on.”

Harry frowns; they’ve continued their research on protection magic, but they have yet to find a way to dismantle the curses Voldemort has wrapped into his Horcruxes without what Snape considers ‘grave risk.’ “You mean, something beyond the spellwork of the Horcruxes?”

“Something far more powerful, and something that, once invoked, cannot be undone.”

Panic, like ice water, rushes through his veins. Harry does his best to ignore it. “But what else could he possibly be looking for? He’s found immortality. He can’t be killed now, not until the Horcruxes are gone, anyway.” And frankly, Harry already believes that to be quite hopeless.

“That’s it though,” Snape responds softly, brushing a finger against Harry’s cheek. The touch sends a shiver across his skin, and Harry looks up again. “Although formidable instruments against death, Horcruxes _can_ be destroyed, and Voldemort knows it. We _will_ find a way.”

“We still don’t know how to unravel the curses.” Something occurs to Harry. “Wait. Does Voldemort realise we’re hunting Horcruxes?”

Snape looks thoughtful for a moment. “I am not certain of the extent to which the Dark Lord can sense his Horcruxes. His soul is fragmented beyond repair.” The man’s hand rests squarely between his shoulder blades, warm like magic down his spine. “Although you, or even I, would gravely feel the loss of even a minute faction of our soul, his is so mutilated that the destruction of one section would be virtually imperceptible. Still, I believe the Dark Lord suspects that Dumbledore has uncovered his secret, and he will take steps to fortify those that remain hidden. It will become increasingly difficult and dangerous for us to destroy them.”

“And this other...device—?”

“It's an ancient artefact of unquestionable power. It has been lost for many centuries, but Voldemort, I believe, has discovered its location. And he will stop at nothing to find it.”

“What is it?”

Snape hesitates, clearly deliberating how much he should tell him. He scowls at the man.

Harry has always resented Dumbledore’s policy of concealing vital information. If Harry is mature enough to destroy Horcruxes and face dark wizards (or die trying), then he is old enough to understand just what Voldemort is capable of. Snape has been, of late, more forthcoming.

The man sighs, coming to a decision. “The artefact is very old, its known history dating back well over two thousand years. And, if manipulated with enough power, it can render the user immortal. Permanently.”

The air curls (yellowish, jaundiced), and Harry can hardly breathe. “He’ll never be stopped.”

“No. But if we can find it first, we can turn its magic against the Dark Lord.” Despite everything, Snape sounds nearly excited. “With enough power, we could eliminate the need to find the remaining Horcruxes entirely. We could defeat the Dark Lord regardless of how many fragments of himself he's hidden away.”

“But if he finds this...thing first, we’re fucked.” The moment the word falls from his lips, Harry gasps, hand flying to his mouth as if to snatch the obscenity back. But Snape only arches an eyebrow and looks at him pointedly.

“Yes, Mr. Potter. Fucked indeed.”

The word sounds delicious on Snape’s tongue. He blushes, feeling the warmth spread from his cheekbones down to his collar.

Snape doesn’t roll his eyes, but Harry is sure it takes great effort. “What do you know about the Sangreal?”

“The Sangreal?” Hermione would know. Harry’s mind races, seeking desperately for some connection, some reference, anything to show Snape that he isn’t a complete dunderhead. But there is nothing. Even when he isn’t trying, Snape still succeeds in making him feel like an idiot.

But Snape isn’t looking at him like he has the IQ of a dung beetle. His expression isn’t exactly soft, but it is thoughtful. Which, for Snape, is as close to kindness and acceptance as he is likely to get.

“At times, throughout history, it's been referred to as the Holy Grail.”

Now that sounds familiar. “It’s the cup from the Last Supper that was used to catch the blood of Jesus at the crucifixion.” Harry is pleased he came up with the answer, but he does not understand why Voldemort would be concerned with a Muggle Christian relic.

Snape nods. “Something like that, but I believe the chalice of the Grail legend is actually much older.” He rifles through a stack of scrolls on his desk, flattening one out between them. “Here, look at this.” Snape taps one long finger on the parchment.

Harry edges closer, looking over the man’s shoulder, and doing his best not to be distracted by the warmth radiating from Snape’s body.

“Potter.”

“Er, yeah?”

“Pay attention.”

“I am.”

Snape raises an eyebrow. “To the document, not me.”

Harry ducks his head, trying to hide the blush, but it’s pointless.

“You’re hopeless.”

That statement doesn’t warrant a response, so he says nothing. Snape is probably right.

The man laughs softly, but points to a section of text. “Celtic myths have long told of cups or chalices with magical, restorative powers. There are stories dating back well before the time of Christianity of a cup or cauldron of rebirth. This cauldron could reportedly bring slain warriors back to life.”

“Do you think it's the same chalice?” Harry asks, barely above a whisper.

“Quite possibly.” Harry is still very aware of how close they are. “It would make sense that Jesus Christ’s followers would seek out such a powerful artefact to protect their leader and their cause, especially once it became clear that the Roman authorities wanted him dead.”

“Yeah. A cauldron of rebirth would be dead useful then.”

“Your remarkable eloquence aside, you are quite right. And while the cauldron or chalice itself is imbued with great magic of its own, it would require great power to initiate a corporeal resurrection. 'Sangreal' quite literally means Holy Grail or True Blood. Only a truly powerful being’s blood could initiate such an occurrence.”

Harry chews on his lip, considering the matter. “Then it didn't work,” he says finally.

Snape shakes his head. “On the contrary, it did work. Christian and religious records indicate that Jesus Christ was resurrected and brought back to life in human form for forty days.”

Harry frowns. “But if it worked, if he really did manage to come back to life, then why only for forty days?”

“The answer to that, I believe, would necessitate an intense theological discussion.” Snape pulls another scroll from the pile. “Suffice it to say that Jesus Christ accomplished what he set out to do.”

At Harry’s no doubt blank expression and slightly open mouth, Snape continues. “Christian scholars believe that Christ’s death and resurrection allowed for a much greater act than the immortality of one man.”

Harry listens with far more attention than he ever paid in Potions. The story is fascinating, although terrifying in its potential implications. The Dursleys weren’t exactly the church-going type, and even if they had been, they never would have considered taking Harry along. But he heard some of the stories about Jesus and the Crucifixion in school. And, even if he never knew quite what to make of them, he found them interesting.

Snape continues, interrupting Harry’s thoughts. “According to Christian theology, Jesus Christ, through his death and subsequent resurrection, was able to provide for the immortality of every human being in the form of salvation after death.”

Harry doesn’t know if he believes in a God or a Heaven but clearly there is enormous power at work. “And if Voldemort manages to harness even a fraction of that power?”

Snape nods. “Yes. You see the predicament we face?”

Harry shudders but realises something. “None of the other Bible stories I heard ever mention the Grail's role in the resurrection, though. They just say the Grail was used to catch Jesus’s blood.”

“No. After the reference to Joseph of Arimathea, the Christian scriptures never mention the chalice or Grail again.” Snape taps a finger against the desktop. “But they wouldn’t, would they? It makes perfect sense that the Christian Bible would eliminate such information. Such a powerful artefact would be coveted indeed. Wars have been fought over less.”

That sounds reasonable to Harry.

“Still,” Snape says after a moment. “The Grail has continued to show up in stories and records long after the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.” He pauses, black eyes fixed on Harry’s. “What do you know about King Arthur?”

“I thought that was a story about a Muggle king.”

“You do realise how closely our stories, histories, and legends intertwine?” Snape rolls his eyes at Harry’s look. “I never did think too highly of Muggle primary education.”

Harry feigns offence at the comment, and Snape continues. “Yes. King Arthur was a Muggle king. A Muggle king who happened to be close to the greatest wizard the world has possibly ever known.”

Oh. “Merlin.”

“Yes, Merlin,” Snape says in the voice he uses on particularly slow first-years. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”

Harry elbows Snape in the ribs playfully. “Of course I have.”

“And what do you know about the Arthurian legends?” Snape asks a bit impatiently.

Harry chuckles. Snape glares. Harry attempts to sober his expression but does so unsuccessfully, as Snape eyes him pointedly.

“How do you do it?” he asks, unsuccessfully trying not to laugh.

“How do I do what, Mr. Potter?”

“Stand it every day.”

He arches an eyebrow. Harry thinks he quite likes the look. “How do you stand dealing with people who are so clearly your intellectual inferiors?”

Snape’s lips twitch (the hint of a smile). “With difficulty. So, Mr. Potter, King Arthur?”

“I know who King Arthur is. We learned all about his Knights of the Round Table.”

“And do you recall his connection to the Grail legend?”

Harry shakes his head.

“According to legend, there are three things that bring about the fall of King Arthur’s court. The affair between Guinevere and Lancelot. Mordred – the child of Arthur and Morgaine’s illicit liaison. And the Quest for the Holy Grail.”

Harry takes a deep breath. He realises he is missing something significant, but he doesn’t know what. “Did they find the Grail?”

“Eventually.”

“Where was it?”

“In Britain.”

Harry gasps. “And it's still here?”

“The Dark Lord believes so.”

“Where?”

“The Dark Lord believes that the Grail is currently held in the Department of Mysteries.”

“My dreams...”

“Your dreams, Mr. Potter?”

“Yeah. I’ve been having dreams. For months really.”

Snape goes pale. “And you decided to tell no one?”

“It didn't seem important.”

“Oh yes. Of course. And you, Mr. Potter, are entirely qualified to determine what is important in matters that affect the fate of the entire Wizarding world?” He takes his robe from the back of his chair and pulls it on. “Come.”

Harry doesn’t have any choice but to follow, as Snape grabs him by the wrist and practically drags him out of his office and down the long corridor that leads away from the dungeons.

“Puking Pastilles,” Snape grinds out between clenched teeth when they reach the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster’s door. Harry wonders if it is physically painful for the man to indulge Dumbledore’s whimsy every time he visits his office.

* * * * *

  
“If Voldemort knows where the Grail is,” Harry asks, chewing on the end of his quill, “why doesn’t he have it already?”

Snape doesn’t look up from the text he is reading. “There is a component of Grail lore which, I believe, has caused him some difficulty.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. According to legend, one must be truly pure to obtain the Grail.”

Harry snorts, biting back a laugh. “Well, that's the best news I’ve heard all week.”

Snape looks at him rather curiously, and he continues. “Voldemort pure? That’s mad. And I doubt any of his Death Eaters fit the requirement either.” Harry shoots Snape a meaningful look, challenging him to say otherwise. But the man only inclines his head. “This is a good thing for us, right? Perhaps we don’t need to be so worried about it now.”

“Unfortunately,” Snape replies, “I believe the Dark Lord has found a way to circumvent that constraint.”

Suddenly the pieces fall into place (realisation tinged with sickening certainty). “Winston Goyle.”

Snape nods. “Yes. I assume the boy was in the Department of Mysteries last week because the Dark Lord is seeking the Grail.”

“But something went wrong. He was killed.”

“Yes. Though, I do not know if the child’s death was the result of the Grail’s protective magic or some other danger encountered in the Department of Mysteries. There are many inexplicable and terrifying things kept in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic.”

Harry nods, remembering what he saw last spring. “What will he do now? I can’t imagine even Death Eaters being keen on offering up their kids after what happened to Winston.”

“You might be surprised what some would do in His service,” Snape says darkly. “But no. Even the Dark Lord realises the risks involved in demanding too much from those most loyal.”

“That’s good then, right?”

“Perhaps. But I believe the Dark Lord still has a follower that qualifies.”

Harry thinks about that for a while. Then, suddenly, he understands. “Draco.”

Snape nods, as Harry considers the implications of that admission.

“But Draco’s not pure,” he says after a moment, confident in his assertion. When Snape does not respond, Harry continues. “I _know_ Draco’s not pure.”

That earns him a raised eyebrow.

“No! Not like that.” Harry shudders a bit over dramatically. “I mean, he’s been all over nearly every Slytherin girl in our year – and half of Ravenclaw.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that. It is my understanding that the females typically are in pursuit of him.”

Harry frowns but says nothing, and Snape continues. “In some circles, a young man like Mr. Malfoy is considered a desirable catch. Are you so certain of the status of Mr. Malfoy’s virginity?”

The thought of Malfoy as ‘desirable’ is enough to make him gag. He tries not to. “No.”

“Besides,” Snape says. “I believe there are alternate definitions of purity.”

Harry looks up at this, waiting for further explanation. When Snape offers none, he bites his lip considering. Finally, he understands. “He’s never killed anyone.”

Snape nods.

“But— What about Dumbledore?”

“I am quite certain the Dark Lord does not actually expect him to be successful in that task.”

Harry says nothing for a long time. Then, “I suppose I'm pure too.”

“Yes.”

* * * * *

  
 _3 March_

Potter is too perfect. Like every desire he’s ever had compressed into one slender, sweaty boy.

A small voice says he deserves this (something that is his and his alone). One small degree of purity, of goodness, in a life filled with pain and suffering and violence and loss.

But he knows he deserves nothing. He has many lifetimes of misdeeds to atone for, and nothing he can do will ever be enough to deserve Harry.

Albus might look the other way. But he isn’t certain about that. He probably won’t be fired. No. He is still too valuable, and Dumbledore understands that his life is as good as forfeit outside the castle walls. But even Dumbledore cannot indefinitely ignore the fact that his reformed Death Eater is…involved with the Golden Boy.

Snape is not sure what happened. After all, he’s always considered himself a practical man. And _this,_ this frantic press of bodies, this touching of bared skin, is surely the height of insanity. But at some point (an hour, a day, a week ago – he’s not sure) this became commonplace, became something incorporated into his view of what is normal.

But here in his rooms (with Potter’s fingers in his hair, his hands on the boy’s hips) it doesn’t seem mad at all.

Potter is beneath him, mouth open, hips moving restlessly. He’s already hard. And Snape still can’t believe that he has this effect on him. It’s intoxicating.

“What do you want?”

“Oh…oh, God, Snape. Touch me.” Potter arches up, shifts beneath him. Snape can feel the length of his cock, and Potter parts his thighs, forces Snape to fall between.

“Do you want me to take your prick out? Rub it until you come all over my hand?”

The boy’s breath is warm again his neck, and he wonders if he even needs to touch him; he thinks, perhaps, Potter will come regardless. Snape sits back on his knees. Potter groans at the loss of pressure, of friction, but Snape reaches forward to press two fingers to his lips, preventing any protest.

The boy sucks the tips of Snape’s fingers into his mouth, and his tongue is warm and wet enough to send a rush of pleasure spiralling through his veins. It burns like fire up and down his spine and nearly takes his breath away. “Potter—”

“Harry,” he breathes. “I like it when you call me Harry.”

Snape thinks that’s not a terribly unreasonable request.

He undoes the boy’s belt, slips worn leather through loop and brass, and then his hands are on Pot— Harry’s flies. His green eyes are dark, pupils wide, as he looks up at Snape. It is all he can do to keep his hands from shaking as he slides down the zip.

Then the boy’s cock is out, framed by the white cotton of his pants. Snape wants to suck it into his mouth. He wants to slide his tongue over the slick curve of pink cockhead and lick the fluid gathered there. He wants Potter to come (eyes wide, stomach tense, fingers clenching in his hair).

He wraps his hand around his cock.

The boy bites his lip, jerks his hips, and Snape tightens his grip, strokes him up and down. Potter is sweating now. His fringe is plastered to his forehead, covering the scar; his cheeks are a bright pink. Snape thinks it’s lovely. He moves his hand faster.

“God, I’m close,” Potter moans. “I’m close.”

“Come. I want to see you.” Snape finds he is suddenly out of breath, but the boy shudders and gasps, cock spurting hot all over Snape’s hand.

He leans back, watches the rapid rise and fall of Potter’s chest, and sucks one finger into his mouth, tasting the boy on his tongue.

Perhaps, Snape thinks, he is going mad.

* * * * *

  
“I heard that you are performing admirably in Potions this term,” Snape comments one evening as they are curled together by the fire in Snape’s sitting room.

Harry shrugs, butting his head against the man’s hand until he resumes stroking his hair. He sighs at the touch. “I'm sure Slughorn is exaggerating,” he offers after a moment. He doesn’t really want to discuss Potions or class work with Snape right now. “That, or I’m just doing better under his instruction.” He smirks up at Snape. “My old professor could be a bit of a git.”

* * * * *

  
“Undress for me.” Snape’s voice is low and perfectly measured. He sits on the edge of the sofa, expression blank, as Harry’s fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt. This is new. He’s never been naked in front of Snape before, and he feels awkward standing here before Snape (still fully dressed -- black coat, white shirt, black pants, black shoes). But the intensity of his gaze, eyes black as pitch, sends spirals of want slipping through his veins.

And the fact that Harry is here with him at all causes heat to bloom in the pit of his stomach, coil around the base of his spine, and flush his skin with warmth.

[](http://www.snapepotterfests.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/Zarkir-2.jpg)

He stands there for a moment, shoulders back, spine straight, as Snape’s eyes drift down his chest, follow the faint trail of hair disappearing into his pants. His expression is still carefully guarded, but his lips twist just so (the faintest hint of a smile). “Trousers too,” he says. “I want to look at you.”

And Harry blushes even as his fingers pull his belt through the buckle and loop, tug at his zip. He pushes trousers and pants down at once, refusing to be embarrassed at how achingly hard he already is.

Snape stares for a long moment, and Harry must fight the urge to cover himself with his hands. “Turn around.”

And Harry does, slowly, deliberately, understanding that Snape likes to look at him.

“Gorgeous.”

As the word unfurls between them, a thrill of excitement twines round Harry’s heart. It amazes him that Snape thinks he’s beautiful. But beauty, Harry knows, has very little to do with affection. And he still doesn’t know what the man wants.

“Come here.” Snape’s voice is soft now, nearly tender, and when he slides his hands up and down Harry’s arms, fingers circling his biceps, tracing the curve of an elbow, his touch is reverent and gentle (in his wildest dreams, not how he imagined the man would be).

Harry sighs, arches into his touch, and does not begin to contemplate the man’s motivations.

It is enough that he’s here with him now.

Snape’s hands drop to his waist; his fingers skim softly over hipbones before tracing the shadow that runs along the curve of his thigh. Harry trembles and wants, _wants, wants…_

“Oh… _oh,_ God,” he gasps, and the man chuckles, a warm sound deep in his chest that does delicious things to Harry’s skin.

“Touch me, please.” Sometimes, it seems, Harry is not above begging.

“No,” the man responds, and Harry squirms, trying to force Snape’s fingers to his cock, but he holds him fast, won't let him move.

Harry groans.

And Snape’s smirk is infuriating. “Tonight, I think I'd rather suck you. Let you thrust into my mouth until that pretty cock of yours comes down my throat.”

Oh. “ _Oh, fuck…_ ” He’s shaking now, stomach muscles taut and tight. He clenches his hands into fists, feels the sharp press of his nails into his palms, and tries desperately not to fall to pieces, not to cry out, not to come all over himself and the floor before Snape has so much as touched him.

He tugs Harry toward him, pulling him between the open slice of his thighs, and leans forward to exhale a warm gust of air on his skin.

Harry bites his lip and cannot look at the man’s head between his legs. But then Snape’s tongue, warm and wet and tantalizingly slow, slips down the length of his shaft, then up and down again.

Harry’s fingers are in Snape’s hair, twisting and tugging, but he doesn’t increase his pace, doesn’t suck him into his mouth. Instead he continues that torturous slide until Harry is certain he can't stand it anymore. It’s the most extraordinary thing he’s ever felt.

“Oh… _Sna—oh,_ ” he gasps through gritted teeth. “It's too much. I'll come if you don’t—”

With one more twist of his tongue, he pulls away, and Harry grips the base of his erection tightly, forces the urgency away.

“So responsive, so eager,” the man says softly. “So close already. And I haven’t even swallowed you down. Haven’t let you fuck my mouth as I know you wish to do.”

Harry holds his breath, grips his cock tighter. The pain is a welcome counterpoint to Snape’s teasing touch. “Please…” He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet as Snape watches him calmly, impassively.

If it weren't for the noticeable bulge in Snape’s trousers, Harry would think he had no effect on the man at all.

“You're beautiful like that,” Snape says after a moment.

“Like what?” he asks breathless, as the man’s fingers stroke along his thighs. “Desperate and begging?”

“No. Hard.” Snape smiles. “Hard for me.” He wets his lips; his eyes are very black. “So hard I think you might come even if I don’t touch you at all.”

Harry is trembling; he’s close.

And the way Snape is looking at him thrills him.

“Please,” he says again, and Snape complies, leaning forward to take him into his mouth, sucking gently, curving one hand around Harry’s hip to pull him closer, encourage him to rock forward, thrust into that wet warm heat.

He moves his hips steadily, in and out, in and out again. The sounds Snape makes are breathtaking, erotic, divine as he swallows around his cock, and all too soon he’s _there._ Harry feels the familiar burn coil around the base of his spine, tighten in his stomach, and make his muscles clench. And it’s all he can do to gasp “Snape— I'm…” before he's coming, jaw tight and knees weak, spurting down the man's perfect throat.

His legs would give out if Snape weren’t holding him up.

* * * * *

  
“You understand why it is even more crucial now that you can shield your mind?”

Harry nods. They’ve been over this. “Because I know about the Grail.”

“Yes. And now that you know about the Dark Lord’s primary objective, we must ensure he cannot gain access to your thoughts. He cannot know what we plan to do.”

“I know.” And Harry does. But Snape has been particularly ruthless in recent days, and he’s exhausted.

Snape looks at him for a long moment, and Harry wishes he could see just a hint of the tenderness, the concern he’s seen behind the closed door of the man’s chambers. But he knows that’s too much to hope for. Snape cares more for the cause than he ever will for Harry.

And Harry has convinced himself that it’s better that way. After all, there will be no future for anyone, let alone himself and Snape (as absurd as that idea is) should they not win the war.

“Draw your wand.” Snape’s voice is so clinical, so dispassionate, that it’s easy to believe he doesn’t care at all. Harry must ignore the coldness that spreads through his chest at the sound. His fingers curl around his wand so tightly they ache.

The press of the man’s magic is familiar now (subtle, powerful, tinged with dark, and inexplicably soothing). He pushes his own magic against Snape’s, feels it fill the spaces in between. And, by focusing on the press and pull of magic, he can stop the flow of memory for a little while.

But Snape is a superb Legilimens. And Harry can’t help the images that slip through the cracks of his defence to slide like blood across the surface of his mind.

His knees buckle just as his memories begin to spill (like water, like wave break) to form a mirror image in Snape’s head.

 _The curve of Snape’s jaw. The line of buttons down the front of his coat. The taste of Treacle Tart, sweet on Harry’s tongue…_

“You’re not trying, Potter.” The man’s voice cuts through the haze of thought.

“I am.”

But the press of the spell is already back, flooding his senses.

 _Terry Boot’s lips, his mouth, his fingers on his flies. Harry’s back against the wall, hard press of cool wood. Terry on his knees on the floor…_

Snape pulls back sharply, the taste of his magic metallic on Harry’s tongue.

Harry can feel shards of the man’s anger mixing with the remnants of spellwork that lingers in the room.

“Get out, Potter.” His voice is cold.

It’s odd. Harry is no stranger to Snape’s temper, of course. But the man is a master of concealing his emotions. And his strength as an Occlumens rests in his objectivity, his ability to be completely, painfully, utterly dispassionate.

Harry’s mind races as he tries to put together the pieces of memory Snape just witnessed; this anger is more than simply disappointment at breaching Harry’s shields yet again. There is something else.

Oh. The memories of Terry Boot.

Though Harry knows nothing really happened, Snape wouldn’t understand that from the images he’s just seen. Snape is…jealous. And that thought is so immediately astonishing, Harry almost laughs.

But the look on Snape’s face stops him. It’s been ages, Harry thinks, since he’s seen such cruelty in his expression. “Wait. I can explain,” he tries because he has to.

“Trust me, Mr. Potter,” Snape says. “Nothing you could say is of any concern to me.”

Harry can only nod blankly (the last twist of the knife) because the man’s words never fail to slice him to ribbons, and he wonders how many times he will send him away.

* * * * *

  
“What do you want, Potter?” The complete lack of emotion in the man’s voice cuts deeper than anger, than loathing.

“Please,” Harry begins, fingers curling in the strap of his bag. “I just want to talk.”

“As you see,” Snape says, indicating the stack of essays on his desk. “I have marking to do.”

“I know, but…” He looks down. Why does everything with Snape have to be so hard? “But, I just…”

“As always, Mr. Potter,” the man cuts him off, voice cold. “Your eloquence astounds me. But, if you’re quite done, I’ve work to do.”

Harry almost turns to go. His throat is dry, and his chest feels tight (cold fingers against his lungs). But he knows now why Snape is acting this way. It’s a defensive mechanism. And though Harry didn’t mean to (didn’t do what Snape thinks he did), he hurt the man.

It’s odd, really, to think that someone as strong, as powerful, as controlled as Snape, is capable of being hurt. But Harry knows it’s the truth.

“No.” He’s pleased his voice doesn’t shake. “Listen to me.”

At Harry’s tone, Snape looks up, sneering, but Harry holds up a hand and hopes the man doesn’t hex him on the spot. “ _Nothing_ happened with Terry Boot.”

For a moment, Snape looks a bit uncertain but schools his expression instantly. “Mr. Potter, I haven’t the faintest idea why you believe I care.”

Sometimes, when Snape talks, Harry feels as though his entire body has been lit with flame. The air around him feels heavy and intense, the thrum of electricity right before it rains, and Harry wonders if he might be suffocating. He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. “No. You must understand. I never wanted Terry. I only want you.”

“Mr. Potter, I believe your memories speak for themselves.” Something wavers in Snape’s voice, though, belying his apparent conviction. “It was…enlightening, however, to note that your presumed attachment to me was only temporary.” He leans forward, resting his chin on clasped hands. “Tell me. Did you want to know what it felt like? Am I simply another notch in your wand?” The man’s voice is calm again, devoid of all feeling. It still cuts like a blade. “Or does it turn you on, to be with someone you hate?”

Harry curls his fingers into fists and tries to fight off the swell of sadness that threatens to overwhelm him. Snape might as well take a paring knife to his heart.

“Who is next on your list? Malfoy? Bellatrix Lestrange? Perhaps the Dark Lord himself?”

Harry can’t speak. He knows he’s about to cry.

“Or perhaps,” the man continues, each word carefully, devastatingly, measured. “It is all just a game. Seduce the ugly old Potions Master. Laugh about it with your friends later.”

He tells himself he won’t cry. Not now. He opens his mouth, closes it again. Snape looks like he is about to remove him bodily from the room when Harry finally manages to speak. “Another…notch? What the hell, Snape? There _are_ no notches. I’m sixteen years old and you’re the most sex I’ve ever had.” He speaks fiercely, squaring his shoulders, but he can feel the tears pricking hot behind his eyes. “It’s not a game. I like you.”

Snape sneers, but Harry doesn’t let him interrupt. “Of course, it’s not what I would have chosen – I’m not crazy.”

Snape looks like he wants to object but Harry glares, and the man allows the comment to go. “But for some sick, twisted reason, whenever I’m with you – for the first time in my life – everything feels right.”

“And the Ravenclaw boy?”

“Nothing happened with Terry.”

Snape raises an eyebrow.

“Well, I guess something did – you saw enough of it to know. But that’s all it was.” He runs a hand through his hair; he knows it’s sticking up even more than usual. “We didn’t have sex. He wanted to, but—”

If anything, Snape looks even more furious.

“God, Snape,” Harry knows he sounds desperate, but it doesn’t matter. “I’m not stupid. I know that he did. But I didn’t even let him touch me.”

“You were in his room willingly, Mr. Potter.”

Harry’s chest clenches, and he hopes that everything hasn’t fallen apart (his world dissolved into pale threads). “Yes. And I thought I wanted to. I thought it might help me get over…” He stops short and looks down, twisting his hands together. Then he forces himself to look up at Snape again. “I thought it might help me get over you.”

Snape doesn’t respond, and for a moment Harry thinks he’s going to tell him to leave again. He holds his breath, but then Snape sighs and presses his fingers to his temples. When he looks at Harry again, he looks tired, but not angry anymore. “To get over me?”

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever heard Snape sound so unnerved, so unsure. “Yes.”

“I don’t understand.”

Harry takes a tentative step forward, but he does not touch the man; he’s not sure he can. “I didn’t _want_ to want you, Snape. And I know you didn’t want me to either. Honestly, I still don’t know what you want… if you want me at all.” He rubs a hand over his face, pushing his glasses up to his forehead. “But you’re jealous, so I think you must, at least a little.”

Snape opens his mouth but closes it again, and Harry thinks that must be a good sign. After all, he hasn’t been hexed yet. “I’m not. I mean…” Snape says, running a hand through his hair; he looks uncharacteristically flustered. It’s strangely endearing. “Mr. Potter, I admit I am…unaccustomed to such things.”

“That makes two of us, then.” Harry takes a step closer. “But I do know that – the other night, when you sent me away – that’s not what I want. Please don’t do that again.”

Snape looks a bit uncomfortable but nods. “There are some things I can’t be.”

Harry smiles. “I know. I wouldn’t want you to be.”

“This isn’t right.”

“Of course it is,” Harry insists, looking up at Snape. The man’s dark eyes are shuttered

“I will lose my job. I could lose everything.”

Harry exhales slowly, brushes his fingertips along the back of Snape’s hand. “No one will know.”

“The Dark Lord…” Harry knows he’s only saying the things that need to be said. After all, he’s already given in.

“Voldemort won’t know.” They are standing too close. Harry can feel the heat from Snape’s body flash hot across his skin. “If you weren’t an excellent Occlumens, we wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place.” In a life of secrets and lies, what is one more on the list?

“I will not treat you any differently.” The man takes a deep breath; Harry watches his chest, his throat. “Not in class, at least.”

“Nor should you,” Harry answers sensibly.

Snape cannot hide his surprise at the remark.

He rolls his eyes. “The good little Death Eaters need to be able to report back to mummy and daddy that all’s well on the Hogwarts front: the greasy old Potions Master still hates the Boy Who Lived.”

Snape raises an eyebrow, and Harry smiles, but he lifts a hand, catches a few dark strands of hair between his fingertips. “It’s not, you know…greasy,” he muses.

The man clasps Harry’s hand in his own.

“It’s just soft.”

* * * * *

  
 _5 April_

Snape wakes to the sound of muffled laughter. Within the moment it takes for him to determine where he is, who he is with, he already has his wand in his hand. He quickly slips it back beneath the pillow.

More laughter.

Excellent.

Potter has finally snapped. He’s been warning Albus about this possibility for years. There is simply too much pressure, too many expectations. The signs are all there. Not the least of them that the boy is currently in bed with his Potions Professor – a man more than twice his age and, by all accounts, his enemy.

He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Pott-- Harry. What is the matter?”

The young wizard just keeps laughing. Snape takes a deep breath and calculates the odds of his immediate expulsion from Hogwarts if he were to Floo for Albus to attend to a very naked Boy Saviour who is clearly suffering a psychotic breakdown in Snape's bed in the middle of the night.

“Potter!” he tries again. The boy rolls onto his back, revealing his pale, muscled chest and tented erection under the thin sheet.

“What?” he snorts, wiping his eyes. Snape glares at him in the dark. “Oh, it's just-- well, there's a war and Voldemort and classes and everything and, yet, here we are, naked in bed together.” He laughs again, a clear and lovely sound. “We're naked and we're in bed and—”

“And that is reason for hysterics?”

“I'm not hysterical. I'm just happy.”

“How old are you?”

“I'm sixteen.”

Snape groans.

“Oh. You meant that in a rhetorical sense, didn't you?”

Potter stretches and rolls onto his side, his sleep-warmed body pressed Snape’s, his prick, hot and hard, trailing a damp line along Snape’s thigh. “It's still dark out,” the boy comments. “Do we have time for another go?

* * * * *

  
“Where do your friends think you go, Mr. Potter?”

“I'm not sure.” Harry pauses, considering. “Well, no. That’s not true, really. Ron’s convinced I’m sleeping with Luna.” He shrugs, feels a faint blush pink his cheekbones. “And after we went to Slughorn’s Christmas party together... Well, I guess I didn’t say anything to contradict that.” Harry can’t help but laugh. “Ginny is absolutely furious with me. And with Luna, of course. I heard she hasn't spoken to her in weeks.”

Snape raises an eyebrow. “And what does Ms. Lovegood think about this?”

“Oh, I don’t think Luna minds one way or the other.” He shrugs again. “And, I must admit, it’s a convenient alibi.” He smiles at Snape. “After all, it’s not like I can tell the truth about any of this.”

“No. But have you considered sparing Miss Weasley additional distress by informing her that you're not actually interested in Ms. Lovegood or anyone else of that particular, er, persuasion?”

Harry forces a laugh. “Yeah. I've considered it.” He looks down, picking at a thread on his jumper, then he laces his hands together in front of his body. “I mean, it might make things easier, you know, telling my friends I'm bent. But it's just never seemed to be the right time, and all...” He trails off, picking at the thread again. When he looks at Snape again, the man’s expression is unreadable. “It's just that it's a big decision. The timing needs to be right.”

“Keeping your options open?” Snape’s voice is flat, but there is something about his posture that belies his calm. And there is an urgency underlying the non-question.

“No. No. It's not that at all.” Harry takes Snape's hand, clinging to him almost desperately. “I promise. I'm not going to change my mind about this.” He steps closer, pressing his other palm to the man’s chest. “And girls don't do a thing for me.” He leans in, lips nearly touching Snape’s jaw. “Never have. Never will.”

Snape swallows and steps back. “Then why haven’t you told them?”

Harry drops his hands to his sides and looks down. “It's just, I don't want to disappoint anyone.”

Snape slides one long finger along Harry’s chin, coaxing him to look up again. “I'm not asking you to tell the world you’re sleeping with your greasy, lecherous Potions Master.” He laughs, a self-deprecating sound. “In fact, I'd prefer you not to. But you shouldn't have to hide who you are. You've nothing to be ashamed of.” He pauses, thumb tracing Harry's bottom lip. “Well, aside from your current choice of sleeping partners.” He smiles, thin lips curling a bit awkwardly, unaccustomed to the expression.

“We’re not sleeping together. Not really.”

Snape raises an eyebrow.

“You know what I mean. And I'm not ashamed. I’m not. It's just...everyone _expects_ something of me. Defeat Voldemort, marry a Weasley...a _female_ Weasley that is, become an Auror, have lots of babies...” He bites his lip, suddenly sure he’s upset the man somehow, and ducks his head. “And this is just one more way I'm going to let them all down.”

Snape kisses him. Slow and sweet, tongue dipping just so into the warmth of his mouth. “You won't let them down,” he whispers, against his mouth. “You won't be a disappointment.”

* * * * *

  
One evening, Harry is curled up in Snape’s wingback chair by the fire, reading. Ostensibly, he is in the dungeons serving yet another detention. But, in truth, he enjoys the quiet Snape’s chambers affords him for studying. Even if it means enduring Ron’s rude and off-colour comments ( _“That greasy, sadistic bastard... He gets off on assigning you detentions, mate.”_ ) Harry had to choke back a laugh at that one. If they only knew...

Harry has just put his Charms book away and pulled his Potions text from his bag when Snape comes in from his office, a roll of parchments under his arm. He places them on his desk and moves behind Harry, slipping his fingers through his hair. Harry turns into the touch, pressing his lips to the pads of Snape’s fingertips.

“Ah, I see now.”

Harry turns, twisting his face up toward Snape. “You see what?”

The man eyes the textbook in Harry’s lap pointedly. Harry has the grace to blush.

“I found it difficult to believe Slughorn when he was professing your evidently new-found expertise in Potions. I thought, perhaps, he was blinded by your celebrity status.” The words roll off Snape’s tongue, all sibilant esses and sugary cyanide. “You were, after all, a mediocre Potions student at best.”

Harry smiles at that. “Mediocre, huh? Coming from you that's nearly a compliment.”

Snape rolls his eyes and snakes one long arm across Harry’s chest to pluck the book from his lap. “As I said, it was...difficult for me to believe Slughorn's assertions of your natural talent in my craft. But now, I see you’ve had help.”

Harry frowns, unsure if he’s about to be in trouble. “Yeah, well, about that...” he begins hesitantly. “I needed a book, and Slughorn found this one in the storage cupboard. I'm not sure who it belonged to, but it must be pretty old. No one was using it,” he adds a moment later.

“My mother’s name was Eileen Prince,” Snape says calmly. “And you know that my father was a Muggle.”

Slowly, realisation dawns on Harry. “Oh... _oh_ my God... It’s your book.” He stares up at the man in disbelief, his mouth half open. “You're the Half-Blood Prince! That's brilliant. I mean, _wow._ ”

Snape inclines his head but says nothing.

“Perhaps now’s a good time to tell you that I had a bit of a crush on him...on you...well, you know what I mean.”

“Mr. Potter, I am quite certain I have _no_ idea what you mean.”

“Oh. Well, it’s just that there are all these spells and comments, but you know that. He’s... _you're_ amazing,” he finishes breathlessly.

“I'm not sure if I should be flattered or jealous.”

Harry feels his cheeks warm further. “It's ironic, isn't it? The Prince is the best teacher I've ever had, and you were by far the worst. At Potions that is.”

Snape spares him a cursory glare, but focuses his attention on his old textbook, thumbing through worn pages. “Some of these spells— Harry, listen to me carefully,” he instructs when he realises Harry isn’t paying attention. “Some of these spells, you must promise me to never, ever cast.”

* * * * *

  
Harry, Ron, and Hermione are huddled by the fire in the common room one evening not working on their Transfiguration essays. Instead, Ron and Hermione are speculating about what Voldemort could be searching for in the Department of Mysteries; Harry is doing his best to act like he doesn’t know any more than they do.

He hasn’t dreamed recently. He hopes that means he’s getting better at shielding his mind while he sleeps, but he can’t be sure. Regardless, the reprieve is nice. Still, his lack of nightmares hasn’t tempered his friends’ curiosity about what Voldemort is searching for.

“Snape probably knows what's he’s after.” Hermione says after a few minutes.

“Yeah,” Ron agrees. “No surprise there. You-Know-Who probably told him himself. I bet all the top Death Eaters know.”

Harry fumes. It is one thing to keep his feelings a secret. For obvious reasons, no one can know about their...relationship, or whatever it is they have. But it is another thing entirely for Harry to sit by and listen to Ron constantly criticise and slander the man he’s grown to care about.

“He’s not a Death Eater, Ron,” Harry says as calmly as he can. He feels the tension building behind his teeth, in the back of his throat.

“Well, obviously Dumbledore doesn’t think so, but he’s bound to be wrong every now and then, and—”

“Severus Snape is _not_ a Death Eater,” Harry practically spits. His voice is low and fierce, but Ron isn’t listening.

“We know he’s got the Dark Mark, and he’s even more obsessed with the Dark Arts than we thought he was. I mean, it’s one thing to respect Dark magic as a deadly threat and all, but you hear how he talks about it in class. He loves it! Gets off on it I bet, the looney, twisted fuck.”

“Ron.” Harry is very close to losing it. Anger jars white hot at the base of his spine. “Snape is not a Death Eater. He’s done more for Dumbledore and the Order than you'll ever do. And _he's helping me._ ”

Ron stares at Harry like he’s sprouted tentacles, but he says nothing, so Harry continues. “No one has ever treated me as anything other than the Boy Who Lived, but Snape—”

“Snape hates you, Harry,” Ron finishes bluntly. “And he treats you like shite.”

 _Not always. Not anymore._

“Maybe. But it’s real, and at least I know he’s not treating me any differently because of who I am.”

“Nah, he just treats you worse.” Ron shakes his head.

Hermione starts to interrupt, but Ron’s glare stops her short. She places a hand on Ron’s knee but doesn’t say anything

“Look,” Harry tries again. “Everyone is just sitting around waiting for me to kill Voldemort. But what am I supposed to do? I’m sixteen! I’m not even out of school. How am I supposed to defeat the most powerful dark wizard of the century? One Dumbledore himself couldn't kill.”

“We’ll help you, we’ll—”

“No. You just don't get it. You guys are great, but you don't know the stuff I need to know. Snape does. And he’s _helping me,_ ” Harry repeats again, wondering why Ron and Hermione can’t see it.

Ron looks like he wants to protest again, but Harry won’t let him. “There's a point when I can’t be choosy about where I'm getting the knowledge I'm going to need to survive. Snape’s the only person who treats me like a grown up, who tells me what I need to know. Dumbledore, Remus, even Sirius before...” Harry bites his lip, but he can’t let his grief get the better of him now. “They know all this information, all this magic for fighting, but they won’t tell me. They think they’re protecting me, but all they’re doing is putting me at risk.”

Harry takes a deep breath. At least Ron seems to be listening now. Hermione is watching Harry closely. “Snape is so powerful. He’s just _so_ powerful. And he can do things with magic that I can’t even understand. If I could just learn one tenth of what he knows, then maybe, just maybe I'll have a chance.”

“If I didn’t know you better, Harry, I’d say you have a crush on the greasy bastard.” Ron laughs; he’s trying to lighten the mood, but Harry feels his cheeks flush eight shades of pink.

Some rational part of his brain is screaming to act surprised, act shocked, act appalled, but all he can apparently manage is flustered. “I, um, I...”

“Bloody hell,” Ron mutters, disbelief washing over his face. “It was a joke.”

“Yeah, I mean I...” Harry stammers, running a hand through his hair.

“Fuck. You _do_ fancy the git.” Ron shakes his head. “But he’s... It’s bloody _Snape,_ Harry. What the hell are you thinking?” Ron’s face is the colour of his hair. “Wait, I know. You’re not thinking. You’re positively mental.”

“Ron,” Hermione finally interrupts. “We just need to—”

“No, Hermione. Not now. We deserve an explanation. How you went from hating him to—” Ron makes a noise of disgust and gestures wildly. “To whatever the fuck this is. Are you bloody mad, mate?”

Harry leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. His restraint is about to splinter. “What part really bothers you, Ron?” he manages. “The part that it’s Snape, or the part that I might be bent? Because last time I checked, you weren’t too keen on either.”

That seems to throw Ron off. He pales and makes an odd noise in the back of his throat. “No, Harry. You’re not. I know you’re not, mate,” he finally whispers.

Harry knows that Ron is waiting for reassurance, for Harry to deny any and all homosexual proclivities, but he can’t do it. He is tired of lying. Tired of watching what he says (or doesn’t say). Tired of hiding who he is.

Hermione pats him on the knee but, for once, doesn’t seem to know what to say.

“I'm sorry.”

“No. No. There was Cho. Remember? You were mad about her.”

“I...I don't think so.”

“But—”

“No. Look. I'm sorry. I really am. But I just can't hide the way I feel anymore.”

“No, Harry,” Ron says again. “You're just...confused or something. It’s all the stress you’re under. I mean, think about Ginny. There’s always been something between you two,” he adds hopefully.

“There’s nothing there. There never has been.” Harry feels ill. Why does everything have to be so difficult?

Ron’s expression darkens. “Right. And the whole Luna thing, what is that about?” he snaps. “Were you just stringing her along too while you figured out what gets your prick hard?”

“Ron!” Hermione says, clearly uncomfortable. But he gives her such an acerbic look that she falls silent again.

“Ron, listen to me. I never slept with Luna. I never even kissed her!”

Ron opens his mouth then shuts it again.

“I never said we were together.”

“But you, her— the Christmas party!” Ron proclaims as if that settles everything.

“You came to that conclusion on your own. You needed a convenient explanation for why I was never around, never in the dorm at night. And I let you believe it because it was easier that way. It’s not like I could tell you the truth or anything,” he finishes, voice soft.

Ron glares, revulsion etched on his face. “I get it. You’re a poof now. Nice of you to figure that out before you buggered my sister.”

“Ron.” Harry speaks too loudly. “You know I’ve never done anything to encourage your sister. Ginny has no reason to expect anything from me. I never wanted to hurt her, but I just don’t like girls like that.”

Ron huffs in obvious disbelief but doesn’t say anything else. Hermione frowns, looking at Harry and Ron as though waiting for one of them to explode. But then a look of relief washes over Ron’s face. “It’s Snape, Harry. Don’t you see?”

Harry looks at him warily, after all, the fact that it _is_ Snape started this whole mess.

“He’s got you under some kind of spell!” Ron declares. “ _Imperius_ or _Confundus_ or something.” Ron eyes Harry critically, as if the spellwork in question should be written on his forehead.

“Ron,” Harry says slowly. “I am resistant to _Imperius,_ and, believe me, I would know if I’d been _Confunded._ ”

But Ron is ignoring him, still scrutinising Harry as if he were a particularly distasteful substance in one of Snape’s specimen jars. Then, in a flash, Ron whips out his wand.

“Ron!” Hermione gasps just as he casts _Finite Incantatum._

Harry could deflect the spell, but there is no point. Perhaps it will help convince Ron that Snape hasn’t done anything to him. He feels the ripple of magic slide over his skin and trickle through his bloodstream.

Ron stares at him expectantly. “Well?” he questions a moment later. “Feel better?”

“No, Ron. I feel exactly the same.”

Ron looks at his wand in confusion, tapping it twice against the palm of his hand.

“Well, here, let me just try that again.”

This time Harry does put up a hand to stop him. “No, Ron. There is nothing wrong with me. I am not under any spell.”

Ron looks at him incredulously. “Well, of course you are. How else could you explain it?”

Harry sighs deeply. They will never understand. But he has to keep trying. “Look, I’ve been trying to tell you all year. We were wrong about Snape. Very wrong. He’s on our side. Like I said, he’s done more work for the Order than anyone. He’s risked his life again and again, spying for Dumbledore and working _against_ Voldemort!”

Ron just shakes his head. “Look, mate,” he says slowly, as if talking to a small child. “Of course he’d _want_ you to believe that...”

“Because it’s true!” Harry shouts, rising to his feet. Several fourth-years turn from their spot in the corner to stare, but at Harry’s scathing glare, they look away again. Harry takes a deep breath and forces himself to sit down again. “I know Snape better than anyone—”

Ron looks a bit sick at that but doesn’t say anything. “I know he's on our side. He's a good man and a great wizard. And he's helping me. Don't you get it? Soon, I'm going to have to face Voldemort. And I'm either going to have kill him or die trying.”

“Harry—” Hermione starts, placing a hand on his shoulder, but he cuts her off.

“It's my task. I'm the only one who can beat him. I know that. But no one will even acknowledge it. Dumbledore, McGonagall, Remus, Kingsley, even you two. But ignoring it won't make it go away. And it won't make it any easier.”

“Harry,” Hermione says again. “There’s got to be another way. The Order, the adults are all working on it. You’re not going to have to do anything alone.”

“Yes, Hermione. I am. And no one is helping me get ready. Except Snape. He understands better than anyone what I'll have to face, what I'll need to do.” Harry can’t keep the pleading edge out of his voice, but suddenly, desperately, he needs them to understand.

“Harry,” Hermione says, taking his hand in hers. “It’s not that we don't believe you...”

Ron sputters at this; Hermione places her free hand on his thigh. She must have squeezed rather tightly, because he jerks and pushes her away.

“I mean,” she continues carefully, “we believe that _you_ believe all that.”

Harry groans in frustration and starts to get up again, but she tugs on his wrist, refusing to let him stand.

“I’m sure we can work this all out. It will be okay. Let’s just get you to Madam Pomfrey, so she can take a look at you. And I'm sure we'll have this whole mess sorted out in no time.”

This time he succeeds in yanking free from her grasp. “Absolutely not. Nothing is wrong with me.”

Hermione glances at Ron. “Dumbledore then.”

He glares at her and speaks slowly, working to keep his voice under control. He needs to get out of here. “No, Hermione.”

“But Harry!” she exclaims. “We have to tell someone.”

“Listen to me. No one can know.” Harry takes a deep breath and clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms. “You will tell no one.” He can feel the anger, the magic prickling just below the surface of his skin. He takes another deep breath, but the magic is still there, pulsing through his veins. The windows rattle and the candlelight flickers throughout the room.

The fourth-years gasp. Hermione goes pale. “Look, Harry. It's okay. We just care about you, and we're worried about you...”

“It's bloody wrong, mate,” Ron interrupts.

No, Ron,” Hermione continues. “This shouldn't be about blame. We're just concerned about you, Harry. The way you're acting, the things you're doing...”

“The whole you _having sex with Snape thing,_ ” Ron finishes, looking a bit like he wants to vomit.

“I am not having sex with Snape,” Harry says. That part is mostly true.

“Harry,” Hermione offers calmly. “No one is judging you.”

Ron laughs.

But Hermione continues undeterred. “Snape is an intelligent and powerful wizard. He's not exactly attractive, in a conventional sense I mean, but he is rather mysterious...”

Ron snorts. Or gags.

It is absolutely necessary to interrupt her then.

“I am _not_ having sex with Snape.” He raises an eyebrow at Hermione. “But I'm starting to think that you might be,” he adds, trying to deflect some of the scrutiny. She blushes, so, at least, there is that. Ron looks green.

Harry stands up. “No one can know,” he repeats, voice steely and cool. “No one.” He turns and stalks to the portrait hole. The Fat Lady lets him go without comment.

He is in the dungeons before he even realises where he is headed.

Snape answers his door on the third knock, and Harry pushes past him into his rooms.

“We have a problem,” he begins sitting down on Snape’s sofa.

Snape listens impassively while Harry recounts the encounter with Ron and Hermione. When he is done, he waits for Snape to say something. Say anything.

Finally the man speaks, his voice measured. There is no hint of emotion in his tone or expression. “Then what, might I ask, are you doing here?”

“I just told you. Hermione and Ron. I, um...” Harry stammers, suddenly uncomfortable. “They know about us.”

“And so, I repeat: Mr. Potter, what are you doing here?”

Harry looks up at him in disbelief. “We need to do— say something. Hermione won't tell anyone, but Ron... He was really mad. I'm worried he might do something stupid.”

“Mr. Potter,” Snape says again, and he realises that the man hasn't called him 'Harry' since he got to his rooms. Snape continues coolly. “Your friends know. You’ve failed to be discreet. I can see no reason for you to have come here.”

“I, um...” Harry feels flat, empty, without substance.

He looks at Snape again, but the man’s dark eyes betray nothing.

The truth is there, hovering between them, in his words, his lack of facial expressions. And it is frustrating and heart clenching and so incredibly unfair. It hangs in the air around Harry, thick and cloying and too much to bear. It makes his chest ache. He feels denial and anger and sadness and…love. Love that is clinging and heavy and excruciating.

He _loves_ Snape.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to throw up.

Snape stands there as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. As if he can still catch his breath. As if his entire world isn’t falling to pieces.

Harry doesn’t remember the walk out of the dungeons.

He is sweaty and flushed but feels cold all over.

He flattens his back against the cool, stone wall, trying to clear the pain and spin of the world out of his mind. He gasps and hunches over at the waist, trying to shake the nausea that is rocking his system.

It is worse than the Cruciatus. This must be what it feels like to be burned alive.

Harry pushes away from the wall and takes off down the hall. Tears sting his eyes and blur his vision, but he makes it to the stairwell without tripping. He takes the steps two at a time, heading to the fourth floor bathroom; he is thankful that the loo is deserted for once.

He stares in the mirror for a long time, trying to calm his breathing and make the tears stop. But his heart has been ripped to shreds.

He stands there for a long time. Remembering. Remembering the things they’ve said and the things they’ve done. It is the most ridiculous and absurd and...extraordinary thing. He _loves_ Snape.

And Snape sent him away without a second thought.

Clearly, they are disastrous together. But it is as though he loves to cut himself on Snape. Taste his own blood on Snape’s hands.

Snape isn’t good for him. That part is clear. Harry knows it’s better this way. The man doesn’t love him. Doesn’t want him. Doesn’t even care.

But poisons are sweet. Antidotes are bitter.

* * * * *

  
Three days later, when the rumours hit the Great Hall, Harry understands on some removed level what Snape’s intentions were.

Lying does come easier when it is the truth.

Harry can’t eat. He feels sick to his stomach, dizzy, hollowed out. He stares straight ahead, seeing and not seeing the looks of pity, disbelief, and disgust. He forces himself not look at the Head Table – to see the lack of emotion on _his_ face.

But every so often he can feel Snape's eyes on him, pricking at the back of his neck, under his skin, sluicing over him like ice water.

When Harry can’t stand another second, he pushes away from the table, but he hasn’t even made it to the doors when he hears Dumbledore's voice behind him. “Harry, perhaps you’d best come with me.”

He wants to refuse, to run away, to turn around and scream that it is nobody's bloody business. It’s his life, and can’t everyone see that it is falling apart? But he does none of these things.

“Sure.”

And the trip through the long hallways to the Headmaster's office is sheer torture.

When they arrive, Dumbledore waves Harry into a chair.

Harry clears his mind and forces his Occlumency shields into place. He feels Dumbledore poking at the edge of his thoughts, and he hopes his defences are enough.

The Headmaster regards him calmly for several moments. He does not offer Harry tea.

“I assume,” he finally begins, “that you know why I've asked you here.”

“Yes.”

Dumbledore waits, clearly expecting an explanation.

“It's not true,” Harry eventually offers.

“Oh?”

“Well, I mean, we have been working together. You know, for my Occlumency lessons and on—” Harry stops short, unsure of how much Dumbledore knows about the Grail.

“Yes. Severus has told me about the research on the Sangreal.”

Harry nods.

Dumbledore regards Harry for a long moment, blue eyes pinning him to the chair. “Is that all?”

“Yes. We’ve spent a lot of time together. That’s true. But hasn't touched me.” It’s the truth. For the last three days at least.

“Why then, Harry, do you believe these injurious rumours are circulating?”

“I don't kn—, er, I'm not sure.”

Dumbledore steeples his fingers and watches Harry impassively.

“It's just... Ron's been a bit upset with me lately. I think he feels left out or something. And he knows I have extra lessons with Professor Snape. Maybe he thought this would be a good way of getting back at me, like a really bad joke.”

“And does Mr. Weasley realise what a serious infraction it is to level accusations of this nature against a member of Hogwarts’s faculty?”

“No.” Harry looks down, tries not to fidget. “And I don't think he meant any harm by it, either.” Although, at this point, Harry is not certain that isn’t exactly what Ron intended.

“I'll need to speak with Mr. Weasley, of course.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harry leaves feeling, if possible, worse than he’s felt all day.

He finds Ron in the Common Room engaged in a competitive game of Exploding Snap with Dean.

“We need to talk.”

Ron starts to protest but seems to realise that he shouldn’t argue. He excuses himself and follows Harry up the stairs to their dormitory. They stand facing each other for a while. Ron folds his arms across his chest, a look of calm defiance in his eyes.

“Dumbledore wants to see you.”

Ron’s feigned bravado falters, but he recovers quickly. “Oh?”

“Yes. He’d like to ask you about the rumours. You know, the ones about me and Snape?” Harry narrows his eyes. “You see, he believes you started them.”

Ron says nothing, but his eyes flash.

Harry continues, pleased he’s managed to keep his voice calm. “And you’re going to tell him that they're just that – _rumours._ ” Harry emphasises the word. “Rumours you started because you were angry with me.”

“I won’t!” Ron yells. “It’s not just a rumour. It's the truth. I _know_ he’s fucking you.” The words sound dirty on Ron’s tongue, but, Harry supposes, that’s the point.

He takes a deep breath, struggling to keep his emotions and magic under control. “He’s not. And that's what you're going to tell Dumbledore.”

“I won’t do it!” Ron's face is as red as his hair. Harry watches his fists clench and unclench. “I don't know what that bastard's done to you. But it's going to stop, and he's going to pay.”

“Ron, you just don't get it, do you? This isn’t some petty grudge any more. These are people’s lives you're playing with. Snape will be fired, you know. He’ll have to leave Hogwarts.”

“Good. Serves the greasy bastard right,” Ron spits.

“Ron, he’ll be killed. If he’s fired, Voldemort will think he’s defied him. He won’t last one day away from the protection the school offers.” It is all Harry can do to keep his voice level.

Ron’s expression falters again, but then he shrugs. “Not my concern.”

“Not your concern?” Harry repeats slowly. “Is that what you want? His blood on your hands? Because you’ll be responsible. And what about me?” Harry asks, voice low. “Am I not your concern, as well? What do you think will happen when _The Prophet_ and the Board of Governors and the Ministry get word that I’ve supposedly been sleeping with a professor? Do you honestly think they'll just let it slide?”

For the first time, Ron looks uncertain.

“I'll be expelled.” Harry’s voice is shaking now. “And there’s a bigger price on my head than on Snape's. Is that really what you want?”

“No, they won’t expel you.”

“Do you want to test that theory of yours? Because that’s not a risk I'm willing to take.”

Ron shakes his head, finally understanding the gravity of the situation.

“So here's what you're going to do. You're going to go to Dumbledore, and you're going to tell him that you made it all up. Tell him you were angry at me, or something. I don't care what you say, but you're going to make him believe it. And, afterward, you are never going to mention it again.”

Harry realises then that a line has been crossed. They’ll recover – they always do – but it will never be the same. But that doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is protecting Snape. Protecting Snape and the hope that some day, maybe, he’ll get him back.

* * * * *

  
There is blood. That part he remembers.

The room is unfamiliar, the air cloying. It hangs heavy, clings to his hair, his skin in a way that is disconcerting and almost too much to bear. The haze is blue-tinged, and Harry can feel the magic here. It is old and timeless all at once; it is also alarmingly powerful.

He looks around, searching for some clue as to his whereabouts (he is certain he’s never been here before). That’s when he sees it, illuminated on a pedestal: the Grail.

Harry reaches for it. He’s so close he can taste it (magic sparking across his tongue). But before he can grab it, before his fingers close around the cup, it tips over and spills. Blood pours out as the chalice falls to the floor. It clatters loudly against the stone but does not break. Harry moves closer, bends to pick the Grail up off the floor, but more sickly red liquid spills from its mouth – more, surely, than the cup can hold.

The ground is slick with it, and still more blood comes pouring out.

Harry takes a step backward; his back hits the wall. He looks around for the door, but he can’t find the way he came in (four blank walls closing in). The blood is rising swiftly now. It covers his trainers, laps at his ankles. He can feel it on his skin (warm and sickeningly thick).

It’s up to his knees now. Harry has never seen this much blood before, and it’s all he can do not to retch. He can’t see the Grail anymore. It’s underneath a foot, now two of black-red liquid. The blood reaches his hips; it’s repulsively warm as it soaks through his clothes, and Harry knows he will drown if he doesn’t find a way out. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and tries to remember what happened to his wand.

But then he hears a voice that never fails to chill him to the bone. “Harry Potter. How delightful. Come to take what’s mine, I see.”

Voldemort’s red eyes flash across his field of vision, and his scar rips apart.

Harry wakes with a cry. He barely manages to roll to the side of his bed before he’s sick all over the floor. Thank Merlin for cleaning spells. He waves a hand and the mess disappears, but that does nothing to calm the spin of the room. His head hurts so badly he sees stars, bright pinpricks across his vision, and he can still taste the blood.

He presses his palm to his forehead. His skin is clammy and cold, but the scar is swollen, inflamed, and hot to the touch.

He reaches for his glasses. He can hardly think with the pounding in his skull, but he knows what the dream means. Voldemort is planning to go after the Grail again, and he must talk to Snape.

The walk to the dungeons is torturous. He is dizzy and nauseated, and the throb of his scar is so excruciating he thinks he might pass out. He wishes he’d thought to pull on his dressing gown because by the time he reaches Snape’s rooms he is cold and shaky. The chattering of his teeth does nothing to soothe the pounding of his head.

Snape answers on the third knock. The look of irritation on his face turns into concern. “Potter— Harry, what happened?”

Snape steers Harry inside, one warm hand resting on the small of his back, the other gripping his biceps (as though he’s concerned he might topple over). The sitting room is warm, and a fire burns brightly in Snape’s hearth. “Sit.” He guides Harry to the chair by the fire. He complies and leans forward, resting his forehead on his hands, massaging his temples with his fingertips.

“What happened?” Snape repeats after a long moment.

It’s been weeks since the man has said more than a few words to him. After the rumours begin, Snape made a point to ignore Harry in class. He cancelled their extra lessons and hasn’t so much as looked at him when they pass in the hallways. It’s been gut wrenching, and Harry misses Snape (misses him, _misses him_ ). But now is not the time to think about it.

He looks up again, and Snape gasps. “Your scar.”

Harry touches his forehead; the skin is raw, tender to the touch. When he pulls his hand away, his fingers are pinked with blood.

“You are injured.” The man’s voice is soft.

“Yes.”

Snape stands and walks to the bedroom. He returns a few moments later and hands Harry a small vial. It shimmers with purple liquid. “Pain potion. Take it all.”

Harry downs it. It’s bitter against his tongue, but the relief is nearly instantaneous. The pain dulls. It’s not gone, but muted, pushed to the corners of his mind, and he can think again.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better now. Thank you.”

The man sits on the sofa across from Harry. “Tell me what happened. Did you dream?”

“Yes. My scar.” He touches his fingers to his forehead again. It is still sticky with blood but not so tender anymore. “It felt like I was being torn apart.” Slowly, Harry recounts as many details of the dream as he can recall. Snape listens. Every so often he asks a question, but mostly he sits silently, watching Harry.

When he finishes, Snape closes his eyes. He scrubs one pale hand across his face before looking at Harry again. “I believe your assessment is correct. The Dark Lord will go for the Grail again. We must act.”

Harry feels as though he’s been plunged underwater. He knew this was inevitable, but that doesn’t make it easier. “When? We still don’t understand the protections surrounding the Grail.”

“No. But we are close. I will speak to the Headmaster in the morning. We might have a few days yet. Draco has not yet been called away from school. We will know when the Dark Lord plans to make his move. We have not missed our opportunity.”

“All right.” Harry swallows. He can still taste the potion in his mouth, but the blood is gone. “Will we be ready?”

“I fear we no longer have any choice in the matter, Mr. Potter.” They sit quietly for a few minutes before Snape summons two teacups and the kettle. The tea is warm and settles his stomach. He sips it slowly, savouring the heat and flavour.

Snape is looking him. His eyes are dark and a little bit sad. He seems very tired and Harry wonders what time it is; it must be very late.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you. It’s the middle of the night.” Harry sets his cup on the side table. He wants nothing more than to curl up with Snape and go to sleep, but he knows that’s not a possibility. Not anymore.

The man is shaking his head. “No. You did exactly as you should have done.” Snape stands up and moves beside Harry. His hand is warm on his shoulder, familiar and comforting.

Harry looks up at Snape, and something flickers in his eyes that makes Harry reach up tentatively to cover Snape’s hand with his own. Snape goes very still, but he does not pull away. Harry’s heart is pounding in his chest; he can’t feel his headache over the rush in his ears.

“I…” Snape looks strangely unsure, but he turns his hand over, laces their fingers together.

“Can I stay tonight? Please?” Harry surprises himself by asking, but the moment the words slip from his mouth, he’s glad they did. He wants nothing more than to simply be with the man again.

“I’m certain that’s not wise.”

“No. Probably not, but I’m tired of missing you.”

Snape frowns. “Missing me?”

“Of course. These last few weeks.” Harry stands, squeezing Snape’s hand in his. He takes a step closer, hears Snape exhale sharply. “I think I understand why you sent me away, but it still hurt, and I’m tired of feeling miserable.”

Snape reaches up slowly, cups Harry’s cheek in his hand. Harry sighs and leans into the touch. The warmth of the man’s skin is soothing, and, for a moment, he can pretend that everything is gong to be all right.

“It appears I have missed you too.”

Harry turns his head, presses his lips to Snape’s palm.

* * * * *

  
 _1 May_

“And you are sure, Severus, that this is the course you wish to pursue?” Albus looks at him over the frames of his spectacles; his eyes are sad. “You are certain you wish to invoke the power of the Sangreal?”

“We must obtain the Grail first. But yes.” It is all Snape can do to keep his voice measured. “What other choice do we have?”

Dumbledore regards him for a long moment. Snape wants to scream in frustration. He wants to wring the man’s neck. He wants to tell him that they’ve been over this before, that it’s all his fault, and (of course) he will do anything for the boy. Instead he closes his eyes and curls his hands into fists, feels his nails bite into his palms.

“We could continue on our original course. Seek out and destroy the remaining Horcruxes.”

But Snape is already shaking his head, something like panic, like bile rising in his throat. “No. I will not allow the boy to sacrifice himself in such a way. It is far too heinous to consider. This is the only course.”

Albus says nothing for a long moment; his fingers stroke his beard almost absentmindedly. “And is this not a form of sacrifice?” The man’s voice grates like gravel, and Snape hates the cold that slides down his spine to pool in his gut. “You do understand the ramifications?”

“Yes Albus. I am not an idiot.” He runs a hand through his hair. It’s an agitated gesture, and Dumbledore is watching him closely, but it doesn’t matter. “Either Potter takes the power of the Grail into himself alone, and we pray that he is strong enough. Otherwise it will destroy him. Or, we invoke the spell together. Share the power, ensure his safety.”

“And, in doing so, you will bind your magic together irrevocably.”

Snape nods. It is not so high a price to pay to save the world.

“Does Harry understand?

Snape swallows. “He will do whatever is necessary to defeat the Dark Lord.”

Dumbledore nods, but Snape cannot read his expression and this unnerves him.

“Then I will serve as anchor when you perform the spell.”

It feels as though a stone has dropped into his stomach. “No. You are already too weak.”

Dumbledore lifts his right hand, examines it as one might a curio. “And can you think of anyone else, Severus? Anyone capable of such a task?”

Snape’s chest feels tight, his palms sticky and warm. “Minerva.”

But Albus shakes his head. “If it were only one of you, my boy. But she alone cannot match your magic combined. There is no other choice. I must do it, and I will.”

Snape has felt sadness and loss. He has felt anger and depression and outrage. But grief – Snape is not accustomed to grief. Depression comes in waves that saturate and overwhelm, but this is different. A puncture wound so slight you hardly know it’s there until it’s too late. He feels as though his entire body has been submerged in ice water. But the course was set years ago, and he cannot ( _will_ not) hurt the boy.

“Severus, look at me.” Albus’s words are soft. His eyes, no longer calculating, are kind and open – as open as he’s ever seen them. And it soothes and terrifies him all at once because Dumbledore has made up his mind.

Everything for the greater good.

“I will die. You know this. Regardless of means. And, if this is the best course of action, the most logical way to achieve our end, I will follow it. And you and Harry will defeat Voldemort once and for all.”

Afterward, Snape wanders the halls and corridors for a long time. He watches the sun sparkle through the stained glass windows. The stone floors are bathed in lovely light (emerald greens, honeyed yellows, cerulean blues) before the sun finally sets, and darkness cloaks the castle.

When he finally returns to his rooms, he finds Potter sprawled on his stomach in his bed, reading an old Potions journal. From the sheer amount of trays and cups scattered around, it appears the boy has been there for a while. And had a House Elf deliver food.

Potter rolls over, smiling and letting the journal fall to the floor. “Don't worry. You've read that one already.”

Snape opens his mouth and closes it again. Harry has the grace to look mildly apologetic. “Didn't you miss me?”

“My rooms, Mr. Potter.”

“Yes, well, no one knows I'm here.”

“The entire kitchen staff evidently does,” Snape responds, eyeing the discarded dishware pointedly. He can picture his resignation letter; it isn’t the first time he’s imagined what it would say.

“No—just Dobby. He won't tell anyone.”

Snape is not reassured.

“How did you get past my wards?”

Potter looks down, biting his lip. Never a good sign. “It wasn't difficult,” he says softly. “I recognise your magical signature. It didn't take me long to duplicate it.”

Snape can’t decide if he should be terrified or impressed. He settles for an indignant glare.

After a few moments, Potter speaks again. “Besides, I wanted to know what Dumbledore said.”

Snape sighs. He suddenly feels very tired. “He will anchor the spell, once we have claimed the Grail. He is the only one powerful enough.”

Potter frowns. “But he’s sick.”

“I know. But, I’m afraid we have no other options.”

The boy nods. “And it will work?”

“It has to.” Snape sits down on the end of the bed. He reaches down to unlace his boots.

“I'm pretty sure Dumbledore knows.”

“Knows what, Mr. Potter?”

“Knows about this—” Harry scoots closer and gestures vaguely between them.

“The liberties you've taken with my teacups and reading materials?”

Potter laughs softly. “No. This.” He waves his hand again. “Us.”

“Albus, despite what he would like everyone to believe, is not omniscient.”

“But he knows about this.”

Unfortunately, Potter is probably right.

“He won’t sack you though,” the boy says, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Not until we've done what he needs us to do. Got the Grail, stopped Voldemort, saved the world.” Potter’s tone lacks all emotion, but his green eyes blaze. “And after that...” He shrugs. “Who knows? It probably won’t matter anyway.”

Snape sighs. He’s been fighting for so long now; he cannot even begin to imagine an end. The thought of having a life all his own (even if it’s tied to Potter) is incomprehensible. “Yes,” he finally agrees. “Albus needs to keep all his pawns in order until he is done with us.”

But Potter is shaking his head. “No. You’re at least a knight.”

A smile threatens; he covers it with a scowl.

Potter laughs again. “It’s appropriate.” He pauses, eyes on Snape. “Knights exemplar, you know, on a quest for the Holy Grail.” He throws up his arm in a sweeping flourish as if brandishing a sword.

“Dramatic, as always, Potter.”

The boy laughs again. “Just think, if it weren't so dangerous, it might be fun.”

Snape smiles.

* * * * *

  
On 7 May, Harry finds Draco Malfoy alone in the boys’ restroom. He looks as though he’s been crying, but Harry doesn’t have much pity to spare.

The door bangs shut behind him, and Malfoy wheels around, wand drawn. His first hex misses wide right, and Harry watches calmly. If he can defend against Snape’s attacks, he shouldn’t have a problem with Malfoy.

Still, he is surprised that Malfoy tries an Unforgivable. His shield absorbs the _Crucio,_ but he can feel its sting. Though muted and dulled by his own magic, it is still painful.

At that moment, Snape bursts through the door, anger sharpening his features, but not masking his concern.

“Professor!” Malfoy cries, clearly believing his Head of House has come to his rescue. “It was Potter, he tried to _Crucio_ me...”

But Snape ignores him, taking two long strides toward Harry. “I felt when he cast the curse.” His voice is tight, but Harry smiles at the worry behind it. “I should have known you could take care of yourself.”

“ _Professor..._ ” Malfoy tries again. His voice has regained its typical whiny quality, but Harry can hear the uncertainty.

“And you, Mr. Malfoy.” Snape turns on him. “Detention. My office. Tonight at 7 o'clock.”

Malfoy opens his mouth to protest, but Snape cuts him off. “I assure you that attempting to cast Unforgivables against fellow students will warrant far greater punishment than a detention should I choose to let the Headmaster, or the Aurors for that matter, know. You'll do well to remember that.”

“Yes sir,” Malfoy manages, slipping out of the bathroom before Snape can change his mind.

Harry stares, indignation flaring, sharp and bright, in the pit of his stomach. Though Snape has assured him that he feels nothing toward Malfoy other than reluctant protectiveness, Harry can’t stand the man’s blatant favouritism.

“Detention?” He hopes the anger in his voice masks his hurt. “The murderous git tries to _Crucio_ me, and you give him a bloody detention! I think he's a bit beyond writing lines or Scourgifying your workroom.” He takes a deep breath (fingers clenching into fists). “ _'Oh no, Professor, not another cauldron. I promise I'll stop trying to kill my classmates. Just don't make me clean another cauldron.’_ ”

Snape nearly smiles, which only irritates Harry further. “I just might go to Dumbledore myself,” he threatens.

“You'll do nothing of the sort. I will deal with Draco.”

“But—”

“Enough, Potter.”

“But he’s a Death Eater! He’s been marked,” Harry says, as if that settles everything. It should.

“I know.” Suddenly Snape seems very tired. “Surely you’ve noticed that I suffer from the same affliction.”

Harry wants to scream in frustration. “It's not the same thing, and you know it.”

When Snape says nothing, Harry continues. “I just don't understand why you’re defending him.”

“I'm not defending him. But I have to believe that he's not beyond saving.”

“I still don't understand.”

“I made a vow to protect him,” Snape says softly, to Harry’s disbelief.

“You—”

“Yes. Much like a vow I made to protect you many, many years ago.” The man steps closer to him, tracing a line across his cheek. “I will always protect you. But I must also protect Draco. And, I do not believe the magic would have allowed me to make that pledge if keeping one of you safe would come at the expense of the other. You must trust me on this.”

He nods. “I…I do.”

* * * * *

  
“God yes, harder...” Harry’s mouth is pressed to Snape’s neck. “Like that...like you’re fucking me.”

Snape gasps but stops moving. He feels his muscles tense, spine completely straight. “I won’t. You know I won't.”

Harry sighs, part exasperation, but continues moving, rocking underneath him. “Right. The Grail. But you’d like to. I know you’d like to.” He arches his back then. Snape’s hips press against his, pushing hardness against hardness.

“So good,” he breathes, rubbing more frantically. His hands slip down from Snape’s neck to grasp and clutch at his shoulders, blunt nails scraping soft skin. “Right there...yes more...Sev-oh...” They are both naked. Their skin is slick with sweat as they move together, and Harry loves the way Snape feels on top of him. It’s erotic and incredible and intimate, even if they can’t do more.

“You like that, don’t you?” the man whispers, mouth slipping along the shell of Harry’s ear. “Imagining what it will feel like.”

“Oh _God,_ yes. And I want you inside me,” Harry gasps. He hooks one leg around Snape’s waist, heel digging into his thigh, pulling him closer still, and Snape moans.

“Yes, right there, Harry…”

It is rare that he sees Snape so open, so vulnerable. It’s too much. The pleasure builds, coiling in his stomach, twisting around his hips. He arches his back and flings an arm out to one side, fingers curling in white sheets, as he comes hot and wet between them.

Snape tenses in response, eyes wide, and shudders on top him. His heart pounds against Harry’s chest.

“Wow... That was...wow,” Harry says as Snape rolls to the side, wrapping an arm around his waist. Harry resists the urge to swipe his tongue against the pale column of his neck. “I still want you to fuck me though.”

“You don't know what you want, brat,” Snape replies before kissing him.

“It was good, though,” he says, voice slurred when they finally pull apart. “Just think of how good it will be when we—”

“Enough,” Snape says, standing. “It’s late.” He walks to the bathroom and returns with a wet flannel. Harry can’t look at him as he carefully, gently wipes his stomach, his thighs clean. He can’t look because he's certain his expression will say too much. Will give too much away. It’s strange. He never thought he would feel this way about another person, about Snape. The man smoothes the cloth over his skin just as he prepares his lab table for work. His movements are precise and methodical; they always are, but there is gentleness here too, a tender regard that makes Harry’s chest clench.

They fall asleep together, Harry curled in the crook of the other man’s arm.

Snape wakes him before dawn, shaking him. But Harry only mumbles and snuggles closer to his warmth. “Harry,” he tries again, hand on his shoulder, and Harry groans, pressing ever closer to Snape’s body. “If the house elves catch you, I will not allow you to return. Ever.”

The threat works. Harry opens his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. And I can't see why I shouldn’t.”

* * * * *

  
“What happens once we claim the Grail?”

“There is a spell.”

Harry nods. His fingers clutch at his teacup, but he does not drink. He understands, in theory, what the process involves, and he knows what the outcome will be. But the ramifications are staggering. And he knows it’s dangerous. “And with that kind of power, will I become immortal?” Harry can hardly make his mouth form the words; the concept alone is terrifying. They have worked so hard to deny Voldemort just that. Harry can’t fathom immortality, and he doesn’t want to.

Snape frowns but does not immediately answer; it unnerves Harry. “No. I don’t believe so.” He takes a sip of tea and sets the cup down on the coffee table. “Remember that magic works on intent. Our goal is not to render you immortal. Rather, we seek to obtain enough power to defy the Dark Lord’s immortality. I do not believe the spell would allow us to do both, even if we wanted to. There must be a balance.”

Harry takes a deep breath. “It’s dangerous, though, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

* * * * *

  
The following Tuesday, Snape keeps Harry after Defence. “Potter, my office. Seven o’clock.”

The response comes before Harry can stop himself. “But I didn’t _do_ anything.” He sounds petulant even to his own ears and looks up at Snape, hoping the man isn’t actually angry with him. But Harry can’t read his expression.

“Your performance today was predictably dismal. You continue to rely on your rather limited natural talents. And, clearly, you think it beneath you to actually practise as your classmates do. You will report to my office at seven o'clock.” With that, Snape turns and stalks out of the classroom, robes billowing impressively.

Regardless of whether Snape actually means them, the words still sting, and a part of Harry hates that the man can do that to him.

“I'm sorry,” Ron commiserates, placing a tentative hand on Harry's shoulder. “You're the best Defence student in the school. I don't know where Snape gets off, singling you out like that.”

Harry nods. Though their friendship hasn’t been the same since the whole Snape disaster (as Harry has taken to calling it), Ron is clearly making an effort. Harry appreciates it. “Yeah. Apparently, I can't do anything right.”

Ron forces a laugh. “I guess no one can accuse you of sleeping with the bastard now.”

His insides churn at the comment. He tries to force a smile, but it turns into a grimace. Even though Ron is trying, Harry knows he’ll never understand, and that bothers him perhaps more than he’ll ever admit. But there isn’t anything he can do about it now.

When Harry arrives at Snape’s office that evening, he has no idea what to expect. The door opens at his touch, and Snape looks up from his desk. Its surface (as always) is littered with textbooks and scrolls, but there is an edge of excitement in the room. “It's time. The Dark Lord plans to make his move for the Grail.”

* * * * *

  
Harry likes the feeling of Apparating with Snape.

It is still uncomfortably suffocating (everything compressed to a single point), but Snape holds him closer than absolutely necessary, pulling Harry against his chest. Harry’s cheek presses against the rough fabric of Snape's robes as the man's strong arms hold him tight.

And when the world collapses around them, Harry still clings to Snape. For a brief moment, there is nothing save the two of them, pressed together, holding close, alone in the same time and place.

Harry is less surprised when they reappear in front of the old red telephone box than he had been the first time he used the Ministry’s guest entrance.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business,” the pleasant female voice requests.

“Severus Snape and Harry Potter. We’re here to save the world.”

“Thank you. Please take your badges and present your wands for registration at the security station. Have a pleasant day.”

Harry takes their badges from the slot. He affixes the one with _Harry Potter: Grail Quest_ on it to the front of his robes. He hands Snape the other one. It reads: _Severus Snape: Backup._

Snape sputters indignantly but puts the badge on. Harry tries not to smile as the older man mutters something about appallingly inadequate security procedures.

Harry wonders what Voldemort’s badge would say. _Lord Voldemort: Murder and Mayhem?_

There is no movement or sound in the atrium except for the trickle and splash of water in the Fountain of Magical Brethren, which, Harry notes, has been repaired since his last visit to the Ministry. He shudders at the memory, and Snape, as if sensing his discomfort, places one hand on his shoulder. Snape rarely displays affection outside his rooms and, even though they are alone, Harry is grateful. He reaches up to cover Snape’s hand with his own and smiles softly.

“Come on,” the man says. “We need to go.”

They stand quietly, side-by-side in the lift, close, but not nearly close enough by Harry's estimation. But the elevator chimes its stop: “Level Nine, Department of Mysteries.”

Once the grilles slide open, they step out into the bare corridor. Harry turns toward the plain black doors. It is achingly familiar and threatens to force the air out of his lungs; he takes a deep breath and raises his wand. He knew this would be difficult. That it would hurt going back to the place where Sirius had— where he'd lost Sirius. But he can do this. He has to.

“Let's go,” Harry whispers, and he heads down the corridor to the door that leads to the circular room. Everything is exactly the same. The same black floors, the same black ceiling, and the same black, unmarked, handle-less doors set at intervals in the black walls.

“I've been here before,” he tells Snape.

“So have I.”

He does not ask when or why Snape was in the Department of Mysteries. The man would tell him if he wanted to.

“How do we know which door to choose?” Harry asks.

“We don't.”

They try each door in turn. Snape seems impressed when Harry marks each incorrect door with a fiery X, before shutting it and waiting for the floor to rotate again. This pleases Harry, and he chooses not to mention that using _Flagrate_ had been Hermione’s idea.

He recognises some of the rooms. He remembers the dark room filled with planets and the very odd mist, he remembers the brains, and he remembers the bell jar in the room filled with clocks. “The Hall of Prophecy is through there,” Harry comments. But that's not where we need to go.”

Snape nods. “I don’t really want to know what happened the night you and your friends escaped from Hogwarts – Merlin knows how you accomplished that – and broke into the Ministry.”

“On Thestrals,” Harry responds. “And no. You don’t.”

Thankfully, they do not encounter the Death Chamber.

When they open the sixth door, Snape announces, “This is it.”

They enter a narrow antechamber with high ceilings. Arched doorways line the room. Harry counts nine, and, once again, he wonders just how big this place is. Snape moves to the centre of the chamber and, after turning one complete circle, begins muttering a series of incantations that Harry can’t understand.

Harry walks around slowly, peering through the tall, curved archways into the rooms beyond. It looks like they’ve entered a museum, or, at least, what Harry imagines a very old, grand museum would be like, for he’s never been.

The first room he passes is so full of artefacts and seemingly ancient relics that he can’t even see the floor. He sees large stone tablets and cracked ceramic and porcelain vases. He notices dozens of bronze arrowheads perched precariously on what looks to be an enormous sarcophagus. There are scores of nasty looking weapons gathered in piles and lining the walls. Some gleam in the flickering light of the room, others look dull and weathered, and still more look suspiciously bloodied. Harry gulps.

Then his eyes are drawn to a section of the room containing a huge collection of figurines, votives, and amulets. He can feel the magic radiating off the items, in ripples and waves both soothing and appealing; he is drawn to it. Harry takes a step toward the doorway, longing to see the items up close.

Suddenly, he is thrown backward, flung up into the air. His limbs tingle with magic and prickle with hot pain (an electrical current sparking through his veins). The magic of the wards sparks all around him: rattling behind his ribs, tugging at his spine, and jarring his teeth. He lands with an excruciating thud in a graceless heap at Snape’s feet.

The man doesn’t even flinch.

Harry groans.

“Do try not to go anywhere,” the man drawls. “These rooms are heavily warded,” Snape continues matter-of-factly, not sparing Harry a second glance. “Better yet,” he adds, “don't even move.”

Harry glares at the offending archway and then at Snape. When the man gives no indication of concern for his bum’s well-being (or for any other part of him, for that matter), he stands gingerly, rubbing his backside, and begins walking around the room again. This time he is careful not to get too close to any doorway.

Moments later, Harry stops at the entrance of a large, apparently open room. Inside, he can see a long, rectangular basin with a narrow pool. The water is calm, but it seems to be flowing toward him. At the far side of the room, he can just make out a large bust of a woman, towering over a fountain that supplies the pool with water.

A sculpture gallery frames the basin. Harry sees four white marble statues in niches to the right side and four red stone statues on the left side of the pool. A small bridge in the centre of the chamber stretches across the basin. It, too, is lined with figures.

Abruptly, Harry feels the same tug he experienced in front of the other room, an inexplicable desire to move closer, to get a better look. It is as though he is drawn to the statues inside the room, to the soothing flow of the water in the pool.

“That room, I believe, holds the Canopus of Emperor Hadrian's Great Villa of Tivoli,” Snape’s low voice jerks his attention away.

“I wouldn't take another step, unless you'd like to suffer such curses as would make Ammit himself flinch.” The man places a hand on the small of his back, and Harry jumps.

“Isis,” Snape says, indicating one of the statues Harry noticed. “Queen of the Egyptian Gods, wife of Osiris, and a great healer and very powerful witch. Come now,” he continues softly, hand sliding to Harry's hip. “I've found the room.”

“How?”

The man smirks, but his expression holds none of its usual derision. “While you were wandering around aimlessly, trying to get yourself hexed or cursed or killed, I was working to determine which door you must enter. Choosing the wrong one could prove deadly.”

Harry nods, thankful he’d chosen one of the less lethal doors to poke his head through.

Snape leads him to an archway on the opposite side of the antechamber. The room is murky and dark; Harry can’t see three feet inside. He can feel the wards webbing across the door's opening.

“You'll have to go alone,” Snape says softly. “I can't pass through. I must stay here.”

Harry knew that Snape wouldn't be able to accompany him to the Grail, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

“What would happen if you tried to come?” he asks, attempting to sound curious, but the tremble in his voice shows his fear.

“We're not going to find out.”

Harry nods. “And how will I know where it is?”

“Once you’re past the wards, you should know where to go.”

Harry, remembering the strange tug he’d felt near the Egyptian room, thinks he understands.

“Inside,” Snape continues, “I doubt you’ll be able to use magic.”

Harry nods again; he can sense the heavy dampening spells in place.

“Go.” Snape places a reassuring hand on his back. “The Grail will let you find it.” But then Snape winces, pain marring his features.

Harry looks at him in concern.

“The Dark Lord is not here. But he is coming.”

“You can tell?”

Snape rubs his forearm. “He knows what we’re doing. You must hurry.”

Harry takes a deep breath and steps through the archway. He tenses (waiting for something to happen, waiting for some force to expel him, but nothing does). He only feels a cooling trickle of magic through his veins. It curls around his wrists and prickles under his skin, and then it is gone.

He can feel nothing but the mist that clings heavily to the air around him; the darkness is oppressive, winding around him like a veil, and Harry turns around, looking for the light of the antechamber. He can see Snape peering through the doorway, a strange expression on his face, and Harry realises the man can’t see him anymore. “Severus, I—” but the words die in his throat (as though they’ve been swallowed whole). He tries again with no success (a phantom hand over his mouth, stifling the sound).

Harry takes a deep breath. It won’t do to panic. He needs to stay calm, and he needs to hurry. He tries a _Lumos,_ but, as expected, it does not work. The room absorbs the spell just as it absorbed his voice. He will have to find his way in the dark. He wishes Snape had given him a map or something – not that he’d be able to see it.

Harry closes his eyes. Surely, he should be able to feel something as powerful as the Grail.

And then – yes, there it is – a subtle nudge at the base of his spine, urging him forward. He moves, hands outstretched. But he feels nothing and is grateful there is nothing to stumble on.

After what seems an extraordinary long time, Harry spots a faint light ahead. Blackness still encircles him (fog so thick he can barely see his own hands), but he moves more quickly now with a destination in sight. The air does not clear, but the light, still cool and dim, increases as he approaches. And soon he is standing in a pale ring.

The light radiates from a thin cylindrical column. It looks not unlike the freestanding jellyfish tank Harry once saw at the zoo, but there does not appear to be any glass enclosing the structure. The substance inside is bleak and gray (the colour of heavy rain), and, though not exactly sinister, is not welcoming either. Harry feels no compulsion to enter.

He steps closer, and the column shimmers slightly, a pulse of light, a heartbeat, a rush of blood. Harry shivers; the air is chilled. The liquid – if it is liquid – is opaque, and Harry wonders if this is it. Is the Grail here? The pull of energy he has felt since he entered the dark room led him here. But does it mean for him to step inside the strange column?

If only he could see inside. He cranes his neck, squints his eyes, but sees nothing at all. He tries an _Accio_ Grail to no avail, but he hadn’t expected it to work. Harry takes a deep breath. He knows what he has to do, but the thought fills him with dread.

He thinks about the wards protecting the various rooms in the antechamber (remembers the magic that shocked his nerves, threw him eight feet in the air). And Snape implied that there was far more powerful magic at work here. He couldn’t even _enter_ this room. If something happens, Snape will not be able to come to his rescue. And though the man assured him that he’d be able to claim the Grail, Harry can’t help but doubt his conviction. The man’s definition of purity seems rather liberal. Frankly, Harry feels only somewhat pure.

He clenches his wand and takes a step forward. The substance in the column swells slightly, and then he is inside.

Magic, like water, like blood, washes over his skin, and suddenly all the air is sucked from the room.

After a moment, the pressure on his lungs lessens, and he can breathe again. Harry opens his eyes.

The Grail sits on a pedestal.

It isn’t ruby encrusted or glinting gold. It is a plain stone chalice, cracked and looking every bit its age. He can feel the shards of magic against his skin, but the protections allow him to reach up and take the Grail.

His palm stings a bit on contact, but the magic gives, and he secures the Grail beneath his robes.

Harry breathes a sigh of relief and steps out of the spelled column.

The light pulses and goes out. Harry is plunged into darkness. He curses and closes his eyes, reaching out his concentration, searching for Snape. After a long moment, he feels it: the press of magic – the pop of Apparation. Snape is not alone.

Harry takes off at a run.

The archway is bathed in sickly light. Harry sees flashes of dangerous blues, deadly greens, razor-sharp reds. The smell of dark spells clings to the air like petrol. But Harry can’t hear anything.

When he moves in front of the doorway, he can see Snape. The man is a superb dueller. He moves gracefully, like art, like magic. But three against one is a losing battle.

His voice won’t work. His magic won’t work. But he reaches out with his mind, after all, Snape would kill him if he simply burst through he door. _I’m here. What should I do?_

 _Stay where you are. They can’t hurt you there._

As if to prove it, an errant curse flies his direction. He flinches, but the sickly light disappears as soon as it reaches the door (absorbed by the archway).

Harry bites his lip and holds his breath. Snape stuns one man, his _Incarcerous_ binding him fast and hard. Snape narrowly dodges a Cruciatus, then casts a particularly powerful _Confringo,_ but the two remaining Death Eaters only stumble. They do not fall.

His heart is pounding in his ears; still, he can hear Snape’s voice inside his head. “ _Stay. The Grail is too important.”_ But then two more cloaked, masked men burst through the door of the antechamber, and Harry has to do something. He aims a Stupefy at the closest wizard, directing all his magic into a non-verbal spell, but the door absorbs the spell, just as it had done earlier. The magic works both ways.

Panic stabs at his muscles, hot and sharp.

He watches as Snape deflects a cutting curse, but then a Cruciatus hits his shoulder, and he drops to the ground, body jerking cruelly.

The pain slices through Harry like a knife, and there is nothing he can do. But when another Death Eater raises his wand, he can’t stand by any longer. He steps through the door, wards echoing in his ears, just as the wizard casts his spell.

Harry clutches his wand so tightly his fingers burn, as he remembers the line in Snape’s book. “ _SECTUMSEMPRA!_ he cries just as the man casts his curse.

 _Avada Kedavra_ is an infectious green, but Harry’s spell is faster.

Blood spurts from the man’s face and chest as though he’s been slashed with a sword. He staggers backward, wand falling to the floor, before he collapses. Harry watches, stunned, as blood pools around his head, his body, sickly red and very thick.

Snape binds another Death Eater, magic curling like cords around his limbs. And the other two men lower their wands, step back against the wall.

Harry moves to stand beside Snape. He can feel his magic pulsing in his blood, and he wonders if anyone is going to do anything to help the man on the ground. Snape knows powerful healing magic, but he doesn’t even spare the man a second glance. Harry feels sick to his stomach. He looks down; his hands are shaking, but they’re not covered in blood as he thought they must be.

Snape takes a step closer to Harry. His presence is comforting but it can’t stem the fear he feels. “Wand,” the man whispers, and Harry realises he’s let it fall to his side even though there are still two Death Eaters in the room.

One steps forward, and pulls his mask from his face. Lucius Malfoy smiles. Harry’s gut twists.

“Ah, Severus, old friend. I do wonder what our Lord will say to our favourite traitor when he arrives.” He strokes a finger along his jaw, cool and composed like he’s going out for Sunday tea. “And I see you’ve brought your little pet.” He looks at Harry, lips curling in disdain. “Though, it seems my Draco’s information was not entirely accurate.” He looks to the side then, and Harry, for the first time, notices that someone else is in the room.

Draco Malfoy stands in the corner, wand clenched tightly between his fingers. He’s in his school robes, his too pale skin a stark contrast to the dark wool. He looks as terrified as Harry feels, and he keeps eyeing the man on the floor.

“Oh, and how rude of us,” Lucius Malfoy says after a moment. “Draco, say hello to Mr. Potter and your _professor._ ” The word drips with condescension.

Draco looks up, eyes wide, and mumbles something before his father continues. “But you see, Draco, Severus has kept your classmate nice and pure. Just long enough to claim the Grail.

Draco looks at Harry, loathing in his pale eyes. Harry glares back. Snape, so far, has said nothing, and Harry desperately wants to know what he’s thinking. Voldemort is on his way. They need to get out of here, and soon.

“I must say, Severus, I found it difficult to believe at first, you consorting with the likes of Harry Potter.” Lucius chuckles, a sinister sound. “That you’d run off to join Dumbledore’s little army. But my son was convinced. Though, now it seems, you haven’t sunk so low as to be bedding your students.” His lips curve, and he looks at Snape critically for a moment. “Yet.”

The words are spoken with such derision that Harry’s anger flares hot again, but Snape places a palm on his lower back, reminding him to stand still.

[](http://www.snapepotterfests.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/Zarkir-3.jpg)

“Yes, well, Lucius,” Snape finally speaks. “It is always delightful to see you, but I’m afraid Potter and I have pressing matters to attend to.” Though the man hasn’t moved, Harry can see his wand at the ready.

“We can’t let you do that.”

Harry tenses, defensive spells on the tip of his tongue, but still Snape does nothing. Then he feels it, the press of his magic at the corner of his mind. _We need to make it to the lifts. We can Apparate from the foyer._

Harry nods in understanding, a minute tilt of his head.

 _Watch out for Draco. I will handle Lucius and Nott. We must move quickly._

Harry glances at the Death Eater on the floor. He isn’t moving, and Harry’s stomach churns at the sight of all that blood.

 _Ignore it. There is nothing you can do._ Then Snape takes a step forward, wand slicing in a wide arc. The second Death Eater falls to the ground stunned. He didn’t even have time to cast a shield. Malfoy reacts instantly, flinging a curse at Snape. He deflects it, splinters of magic charging the air with a white-hot tension.

“Go!” Snape yells, and Harry sprints for the far door, dodging Draco’s _Stupefy_. He casts _Incarcerous,_ but his aim is off. He reaches the door just as Draco screams _“Crucio.”_

It hits the wall before bouncing off and catching his shoulder. Though rebounded spells lose much of their intensity, the pain still makes his eyes cross. It’s all he can do not to drop his wand as he wrenches the door open and stumbles through. Snape is right behind him, still fending off Lucius Malfoy’s attack, as he grips Harry by the arm and propels him toward the lifts.

The corridor glows with the light of spells, greens and whites and icy blues. Magic sizzles across his skin and chokes his lungs, but he moves one foot in front of the other as Snape pushes him along.

Lucius is clutching at Snape’s robes as he throws the grilles open. Harry presses the foyer’s button just as Snape’s spell catches Lucius square in the chest. The man falls back into the hallway, stunned, and the doors slide shut. Harry can still feel remnants of Malfoy’s _Crucio_ , and his heart is pounding painfully in his chest.

“Are you all right?” Snape gasps.

Harry nods as the lift chimes its stop. Snape takes his hand, pulls him into his arms, and Apparates them back to the safety of Hogwarts.

* * * * *

  
 _1 June_

Later, when they are once again safely ensconced in the dungeons at Hogwarts, after they secured the Grail under an impressive combination of wards, Snape holds Harry. Neither of them undressed. They left shoes and trainers by the door and crawled together into the comfort of Snape’s four-poster bed.

Snape cards slender fingers through the boy’s untidy hair. Potter likes to be petted. He sighs and arches into the touch, pink cheek resting on Snape’s chest. After a while, Potter speaks, his voice small and tentative and nothing like the powerful wizard Snape had fought beside not hours before. “Do you... Do you think he’s d-dead?”

There is no need to clarify who Potter is referring to.

Snape doesn’t respond immediately but decides that he needs to know the truth. The boy (no, not boy – man, clearly now) deserves that much. “Most likely.”

Potter sucks in a deep breath and goes still.

“The curse is fatal when left unattended. And no one besides myself knows the counter-curse.”

Harry nods, face expressionless. Snape cups his cheek, sliding his thumb back and forth across smooth skin. “You had no choice, Potter. He would have killed us. It was the right thing to do.” The young wizard nods blankly, clearly unconvinced.

There is no other comfort Snape can offer. He remembers all too clearly the night he first took another's life. He vomited all over his robes before he’d made it in his door. But no one had been around to comfort him. To tell him it had been necessary (it was), or that it would be all right (it hadn't been). Snape remembers that night vividly, painfully. And he desperately wishes he could take it all away from Harry.

But he can’t.

After a long time, Potter says, “That was your spell. You…you _invented_ that.” The words sound harsh in his mouth, flat, dead, condemnatory.

“I've invented many things that kill,” Snape says.

“You— that spell... I didn't know.” He looks at Snape, eyes dark and pleading. “I didn't know...”

“I told you it was dangerous. To never cast it. But tonight... Harry, look at me,” he instructs, cool hands framing the boy’s face, tilting his head. “Tonight, it was the right thing to do.”

* * * * *

  
The last few days of term pass quietly, uneventfully. There are exams to take and essays to write. Snape is as busy as he is. When he’s not marking, he’s researching the spellwork involved in invoking the power of the Grail.

Harry will remain at Hogwarts once the year has ended.

“It’s happening, isn’t it?” Ron asks one night. They are sitting in front of the fire in the Common Room revising.

“Yes.”

“That’s why you’re staying after term. That’s why you’re working with Snape again.”

Harry sets his quill down; he does not look at Ron. “Yes.” The uneasy truce he and Ron have established hinges on the fact that they don’t talk about Snape. This is the first time either of them has mentioned the Potions Master in months.

“I get it now,” Ron says after a moment. “Snape’s on our side.”

“Right.” Harry takes a deep breath. Getting angry won’t help matters. “I think I’m going up to bed now.”

“No, wait.” Ron stops him. Harry clutches his textbook to his chest and narrows his eyes. “I mean,” Ron says, running a hand through his hair. “I understand.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Harry’s voice is more abrupt that he intends, but he’s tired. And he doesn’t want to have this conversation.

“You’re working on this huge thing,” Ron continues. “And no one has ever done what you have to do. You’re going to defeat You-Know-Who, and Snape’s helping.” He bites his lip, flustered, but soldiers on. “I understand why you might feel close to the bastard, er, Snape. It doesn’t necessarily make sense, but I get it.”

Harry understands that Ron is trying to apologise, but that doesn’t make him feel any better. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, turning for the stairs.

“Harry, please.”

He stops but does not look at Ron.

“When this is all over, we can finally go back to normal.”

“I don’t think so,” he says sadly, glancing back over his shoulder. Ron is standing in front of the fireplace, fingers curled in the hem of his jumper. “But I’m glad you’re trying to understand.”

Harry climbs the stairs to the dormitory slowly. He wonders what Ron would say if he knew the truth. If he knew that things would never be the same again.

* * * * *

  
Harry arrives at Snape’s rooms to find the man on his sofa. There’s a cup of untouched tea on the coffee table, and his reference books are spread out around him, but Snape isn’t reading.

Instead, he’s inspecting his forearm. His white shirtsleeves are rolled to the elbow, the Mark clearly visible on pale skin. Harry sits beside Snape and tentatively reaches out to slide one finger over the serpent and skull. Snape tenses but does not pull away.

The Dark Mark is red and angry. The skin is chapped and raw and looks not unlike Harry’s own scar, which has been puffy and swollen for weeks now. “Does it hurt?” he asks softly.

Snape nods. “Every day.”

“You can never go back.”

“I know. I'm useless to the Order now.”

“Don't say that.” Harry takes Snape’s hand in his, twines their fingers together. The man’s palm is warm against his.

“It's true.”

“It’s not. And I refuse to be upset about it either.” Snape looks surprised by his tone, but Harry continues fiercely. “Voldemort’s taken everything from me. I won't let him have you.”

Snape regards him for a long moment, dark eyes reading his carefully. “I believe you.”

* * * * *

  
“There’s something I'd like to try.” Harry can’t believe his own nerve, but Snape’s restraint is infuriating. They’d never do anything but kiss if Harry didn’t ask for more.

They are curled together by Snape’s fireplace. Harry’s naked; his clothes lie in a rumpled heap on the floor. He finds he enjoys being exposed in front of the man. Harry likes what it does to him (skin flushed, breath quick).

“Oh?” Snape nips at Harry’s ear. He squirms at the sensation, deliberately pressing his hips back hard into Snape’s.

The man sighs, sliding a hand down to the curve of his waist to hold him there while he continues to rub against him.

“Yes,” he says. His voice is rough but he does not care. “Something we haven't tried before.”

“Why don’t you touch yourself for me,” Snape says in response. He catches Harry’s wrist in his hand, guiding it between his legs. Harry loves how much he wants Snape, how much the man clearly wants him.

Snape rolls his hips forward again. He’s kept his trousers on (he doesn’t like to be naked); his erection fits snugly between the crease of Harry’s buttocks, separated only by two layers of fabric. It’s lovely, but he wants more.

Harry pulls away, and Snape groans. “No. I said there’s something I want to try.”

He stands. He can feel Snape’s eyes on him as he walks over to his bag; it makes his skin heat. He bends over, perhaps a bit slower than necessary, and fishes for the vial he’s stored in the front pocket.

Snape’s breath catches when he sees what he’s pulled from the bag.

“Harry, no, I…” Snape looks down, as Harry returns to his side. “We've talked about this. We can’t…I won't.”

“I know. Not now. Not until the Grail. Not ever maybe,” Harry says rolling his eyes. They’ve already claimed the thing, and according to Snape’s research, _that’s_ what matters. “I just want to try your fingers. I’m not certain I’m ready for much else, anyway.”

Snape swallows thickly.

“Here,” he says, and Snape takes the vial of lubricant from his hand. Harry scoots closer, sitting on his knees, legs curled beneath him. His cock is hard and ready.

“I’ve something better.” Snape holds out his hand. A second later Harry hears the soft smack as the small vial hits the palm of his hand. He watches as Snape undoes the stopper. The liquid shimmers, a soft golden glow (not unlike sunlight warm on his skin), and Snape coats his fingers. Harry gasps.

“Use a lot,” he says, breathless. “I've heard it feels really good.”

“You’d be right.” The liquid is slippery smooth against Snape’s fingers. “Here, lie back.”

Harry leans back on his elbows, letting his legs fall apart. He cants his hips in what he hopes is an encouraging way.

“Merlin, you're gorgeous like that.”

Harry flushes but does not look away. Snape trails a slick finger down his crease, and he hisses, bites his lip. “Yes, _please_ …”

Snape slides his finger up and down, up and down before circling his opening. Harry shifts, lifting his hips. When Snape presses his finger in, Harry moans. “Oh…” he catches his lip between his teeth.

“How does it feel?” Snape asks breathlessly.

Harry blinks and smiles. “Nice. Full,” he answers honestly.

Snape leans down to kiss the soft curve of his thigh.

“I—oh,” Harry says, as the man twists his finger slightly. “Do that again.”

He does, and Harry presses down against his hand with a soft groan.

He slides another finger in. Harry shudders, tightening against him and spreading his thighs even farther apart.

Snape moves his fingers in and out, watching his face. Harry feels strangely on display. A flush fans across his chest.

“There?” Snape asks, turning his hand as Harry pants and shifts beneath him.

“Yes.”

The man continues to slip his fingers in and out, to twist them inside, crook them just so, watching always. It looks like he’s cataloguing every motion and reaction, every jerk of Harry’s hips, every quick indrawn breath. He presses his fingers in deeper. “You like that, hmmm?” Harry he can feel his voice slide along every vertebrae of his spine.

“Yeah.” Harry lifts his hips again, matching the movement of Snape’s hand. “God, yes.”

His cock bounces against his stomach, but when Snape goes to curl his other hand around it, he bats him away. “No. Just like this. It's enough like this.”

Snape’s eyes widen. “Do you think you can come like this?”

“I think so…” He arches again, as Snape finds the right angle, the perfect spot inside. “Oh, _oh._ Can you touch yourself? I want you to come too.”

Snape gasps and nods. He sits up on his knees, fumbling with his flies. Then his cock is out, framed by dark wool, and he strokes himself as he continues to finger Harry. It won’t take long; Harry’s too aroused by the feeling of his fingers inside of him, by the look on the man’s face, by watching him jerk off right in front of him.

He cries out as he comes, body shaking, cock spurting over his chest and belly.

Snape’s fingers lose their rhythm, but it doesn’t matter. He throws his head back. “Oh _God,_ I’m going to—” With a sharp gasp he comes, stomach muscles clenching.

After a few breathless moments, Snape slips his hand free.

“Wow,” Harry says, fingertip trailing across his stomach, smearing their come together.

Snape flushes and climbs to his feet. When he returns from the kitchen with a warm cloth, Harry is still sprawled on his back on the rug. He’s flushed and sweating. Snape leans over to wipe his stomach clean.

“That was fantastic,” he sighs; his eyes flutter closed. “Just imagine how good it will feel when you actually fuck me.” He wants it so badly he can feel it in his teeth.

But Snape tenses. He takes his shirt from the pile of clothes and pulls it on. It's far too wrinkled to wear, but he buttons it anyway. Harry has to stop him as he reaches for his pants. “No, look at me.”

The man closes his eyes. Harry cups his face in his palms, presses a soft kiss to his lips. “Snape…” he tries again.

The man pulls away. “Harry, I'm sorry. I can't.”

Harry’s chest aches. He frowns. “No. Stop. Don’t do this now.”

Snape looks at him for a long moment, eyes wide and unsure. He can feel the tension radiating off the man’s body.

“No,” he says again. He reaches out, slides a finger down Snape’s arm.

The man closes his eyes. Harry hears the deep inhale, exhale of his breathing. “Okay.”

* * * * *

  
“That boy in your memory, who was he?"

Snape props himself up on one elbow and looks down at Harry. His face is shadowed in the dimly lit room, and Harry can’t tell what he’s thinking. But they’re sleepy and sated and Snape’s wand is on the bedside cabinet, so Harry is fairly sure he won’t be hexed.

“Ah, I was wondering if you would ever ask me that.”

Harry shrugs. “I was curious, but I didn’t think it was any of my business.”

“And now you’ve decided it is?” But the man’s tone is amused, and Harry shrugs again. Snape looks at him for a moment, and Harry thinks he isn’t going to respond. But then he sighs and says, “Regulus Black.”

Harry can’t mask his surprise.

Snape actually laughs. “Yes. Yet another thing in a long list of reasons why your godfather hated me.”

Harry nods while the information sinks in. Snape and Regulus Black. He isn’t sure what he expected but it wasn’t that. “Did you love him?” he asks after a moment, and Snape frowns. He brushes a hand across Harry’s forehead, slips a finger down the line of his cheek.

“I’m not sure.”

* * * * *

  
“I'm worried you can’t hold it all. You already have so much power.” They are on Snape’s sofa. He’s finally figured out the details of the spell that will allow Harry to invoke the Grail’s terrifying power.

“Then you do it.”

Snape looks down. For once, it is clear he doesn’t have a response. Finally he says, “I know I can't do it. It would be too great a risk. Too great a temptation. I'm not strong enough.”

“Then we'll do it together.”

Snape stares down at him for a long time. “That would bind us together, indelibly.”

“I know.”

“You would do that?”

“Yes.”

* * * * *

  
 _2 July_

The spell is simple, especially considering the ramifications and the fact that it has been performed successfully no more than three times in human history.

Minerva has agreed to assist with the spellwork. Aside from Dumbledore and Snape himself, she is the most capable. Her magic is strong, creative, and precise. And she will become Headmistress once Albus is dead. Surely, she should be here for the end.

Her skin is pinched and drawn. She clutches her teacup in both hands, and it is clear she has been crying (in twenty-six years, Snape has never seen her cry). Still, she did not protest. She did nothing more than nod (businesslike, what’s done is done) when Dumbledore explained the requirements of the spell.

Snape rests a hand on Potter’s shoulder, and the boy smiles up at him, but Snape sees the fear in his eyes. He slips his hand down to curl around Potter’s arm, and Harry reaches up to clasp it in his own. Snape squeezes Potter’s fingers, taking comfort in the warmth, the smoothness of his skin.

He sees Minerva’s eyes dart briefly to their joined hands, but he does not care, does not pull away. After all, if they are successful, if they invoke the power of the Grail tonight, then his magic will always be intertwined with the boy’s.

“Are we ready to begin?” Albus asks. He’s seated at his desk, expression calm, purple robes as ghastly and hideous as always, as though they are about to discuss next year’s DADA post or the staffing of an upcoming Hogsmeade weekend. Except Potter is here, clutching his hand so tightly he thinks his bones could shatter. And they are about to attempt a spell that has not been successfully invoked since the time of Jesus Christ.

Snape takes a deep breath, places his hand on the small of the boy’s back, and nods.

* * * * *

  
The spell isn’t all that difficult – or so Snape assures him. Dumbledore too.

There is blood. That part Harry understands. Enough to fill the chalice.

Since Harry and Snape are invoking the power of the Grail together, McGonagall asks that they both hold out their arms. Her wand cuts a precise line in the flesh of Harry’s forearm. He doesn’t feel the sting until he clenches his hand, feels the blood run sickly warm down his wrist. Dumbledore catches it in the cup. Harry feels his pulse pounding around the wound.

Snape follows. He doesn’t even flinch as McGonagall draws her wand across his skin.

When the cup is full, Dumbledore places it in the centre of the table, waves his wand in an elegant loop. The Grail glows blue then red (like blood, like wine, and also magic).

Harry feels the shiver of the spell along his skin. He swallows and tastes ash on his tongue. When he looks down, his arm is healed, skin knitted back together cleanly; there won’t even be a scar. But Dumbledore is ready to begin the invocation.

Harry raises his wand.

Everything is in slow motion. His limbs feel heavy as though he’s moving underwater. He knows what’s going to happen, and though he hasn’t had time to grieve, he tells himself he understands. After all, the Headmaster is dying; nothing will change that, and the ends always justify the means.

( _‘Everyone dies, my boy. And my time, I’m afraid, has come.’_ )

Snape’s hand brushes against his arm. “It’s time.”

Harry nods. His chest is tight. There’s a knot in his throat. He just hopes he can make it through the casting without being sick. But they are past the point of no return. He takes a deep breath.

The incantation is surprisingly simple. It rolls off Harry’s tongue without a thought, syllables familiar and well-practised.

The words are barely out of his mouth, though, when the candles flicker and go out. It’s as though all the air has been sucked from the room, and Harry feels empty, hollowed out.

Then everything is bathed in a sickly green light (the colour of the killing curse, but no one is dead). Dumbledore is standing, fingers clenched around his wand, looking both older and more powerful than Harry has ever seen him.

Harry’s body feels strangely charged – electricity pulsing through his veins. Magic sparks and crackles like lightning across his skin. And Harry is quite sure he’ll never be able to breathe again.

But Snape is beside him; his magic is soothing amidst the turmoil of the spell.

Harry hears McGonagall say her portion of the incantation. Though the language is foreign and unfamiliar, the meaning is clear. _With blood and from blood comes power and life._ Harry can sense the protective magic she weaves, and he knows that strong protective magic is needed to unlock the protective force of the Grail.

Snape adds his own spells then, tying them to McGonagall’s, strengthening their collective force. The magic is all of his own invention. Harry watched the man at his desk late at night writing out the spells.

Dumbledore will complete the spellwork.

Harry holds his breath and waits.

Dumbledore’s magic, silver sharp, edged in light, weaves everything together. It will anchor Snape and Harry to the Grail once and for all. He can already feel the tug of power. It starts at the base of his spine and claws its way up; it’s in the very marrow of his being.

The blood is gone now, absorbed into the fabric of the spell itself. The Grail glows and pulses. Harry feels the violent crest and surge and roil, as Dumbledore’s magic pulls the strength of the Grail from the chalice, forces it into Harry and Snape’s control.

And suddenly it’s done.

The room is cold, but Harry’s skin feels like it’s been lit with flame. He takes a deep breath; his lungs ache and burn as they expand. His ears are ringing, and he’s dizzy. But Snape places a hand squarely between Harry’s shoulder blades, and the warm weight of his palm helps to ground him. It’s over; they’ve done it.

“Very good, my boys. Very good.” Dumbledore smiles at Harry before turning to look at Snape. And Harry can see the love and the pride in his blue eyes. His entire body hurts, but it has nothing to do with the remnants of the spellwork or the extraordinary power now coursing through his veins, hot like whisky, sharp as ice.

Dumbledore lifts his left hand shakily, and Snape catches it in his own. “No, Albus, no.” His voice is choked; Harry has never heard him like that before.

“Please, Severus. Take care of yourself and the boy.” Dumbledore’s voice is soft and weak, and Harry must close his eyes against the tears.

Dumbledore’s hand falls to the desk, and Harry knows he’s gone.

* * * * *

  
Dumbledore is buried in a white tomb.

The funeral is well attended. Harry sees Lupin and Tonks, Kingsley and Mad-Eye Moody. Madame Maxime arrived the day before from France, and nearly the entire student body has returned to Hogwarts for the service. The Weasleys are there, of course. Harry watches as Molly cries on Arthur’s shoulder, and Bill wraps his arm firmly around Fleur’s shoulder. Ginny and Hermione stand side-by-side clutching each other’s hands while Ron looks on, pale faced.

Harry stands between Snape and McGonagall. McGonagall blows her nose into a tartan handkerchief, and Snape stares straight ahead, face blank, impassive. Still, Harry can feel the pain radiating off his body in waves. It’s nearly enough to make him cry.

Harry tries not to listen to the eulogy (shards of glass, thin and gleaming, slice to the quick); it makes everything too real, and Harry feels something break deep inside.

He thinks he might be sick.

This sorrow is terrifying as it sears hot paths around his ribs to lick at his lungs like flame.

* * * * *

  
They sit by the lake for a very long time.

Harry presses his fingers into the ground; the sand is cool and wet under his nails. The sound of the water against the shore soothes, and he does his best to listen to its hiss and lap and swell rather than the tumult of his own thoughts (the white self-destroying bloom of guilt and sadness).

But eventually, the anger and the grief bleed away, and Harry can think again.

The pain is not gone, but it’s muted and dull now, not naked, raw, and red. Harry exhales. “I know how you feel.” He barely whispers the words but knows the man hears.

Snape looks at him like he’s crazy, and maybe he is. After all, Harry knows Snape blames himself, ridiculous as that is. Something flickers in Snape’s eyes then, and though Harry hasn’t said it (may never say it), he thinks Snape understands; they’re in this together now.

( _I love you. I love you. I love you._ )

Snape reaches out and brushes a fingertip against Harry’s cheek. It’s a gentle gesture, gently done. Then he takes his hand in his, and Harry looks down at their fingers twined together.

It isn’t much, and it might never be much (poisoned from the start). But it is something.

“We’ll be all right, won’t we?”

Snape nods and runs his thumb across Harry’s knuckles. Harry thinks he might be happy again if he could just touch the man forever.

“Come on,” Snape says. He stands, hand still laced with Harry’s. “Let’s go home.”

* * * * *

  
“Will it work?”

“It has to.”

Snape is right. There is no reason to talk about what will happen if they fail. They can’t. Harry takes a deep breath, and wraps the blanket more tightly around his shoulders; he’s always cold now. Snape sits down on the bed beside him; he reaches out, places one hand on Harry’s knee. “It will be all right. You are stronger than he is now. You will win.”

Harry nods, but he doesn’t feel convinced. At least he knows Snape will be right there beside him the entire time. “And the remaining Horcruxes?”

“Nullified by the life-giving power of the Grail. Harry, look at me.” Snape cups his chin in his hand, forces him to turn his head. “We’ve been over this. The Horcruxes do not matter now. And you will be successful.”

He nods again, swallowing thickly. “And it’s time.”

“Yes. The Dark Lord is getting desperate. He knows what we've done. The longer we wait—”

“I know, I know,” Harry says. “The more people get hurt.” He leans against Snape, resting his head on his shoulder, and taking comfort from the steady in-out of the man’s breathing. “Everything is about to change, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Harry turns his head, presses his mouth to Snape’s neck. The man gasps, then groans, leaning back, allowing Harry to suck and kiss along the pale column of his throat.

Harry pulls away again. “I want you.”

“I know.”

“All of you.”

“I…I know.” The words run like ink, like water over Harry’s skin.

And then Snape’s hands are on Harry’s arms pulling him closer. And despite everything, he is hard practically the moment he leans into him, as Snape lays him back against the pillows.

Snape hovers over him. When Harry reaches up, smoothes his fingers down the slender column of Snape’s neck, he feels Snape’s pulse flutter beneath his fingertips. Snape exhales; his breath is warm against Harry’s skin.

 _God,_ he wants this.

When Snape kisses him, his mouth is soft and warm. His tongue slips between Harry’s lips, licks gently at the roof of his mouth. “You're mine,” he gasps. “All mine.” Warmth snakes up Harry’s spine at the words. He’s never said anything like that before.

“Yes, _yes…_ ”

Snape pushes him back toward the bed, and Harry tugs him down on top of him. The man’s body is long and lean against his. Snape straddles his hips, pushing his t-shirt up to slide his palms across his stomach. Then, he leans forward and presses his mouth to Harry’s throat.

Harry can feel Snape’s cock hard against his thigh. It sends a shudder of want through him, and he laughs, lifting his hips again. “Please,” he says, and Snape nods. Harry can’t believe he’s finally giving him what he’s wanted.

Snape jerks Harry’s shirt over his head and flings it onto the floor. The man runs a hand down his chest, traces a line across his hipbone.

Harry presses up on his palms and kisses him, teeth catching his bottom lip. “I want—” he gasps into his mouth, arching underneath him.

“I know.”

His fingers pull at the buttons on Snape’s shirt. One pops free, bounces on the coverlet. Harry laughs. “Sorry, but you need to be naked.”

Snape only smiles, a genuine curve of thin lips. And it’s lovely and heart wrenching all at once because Harry knows (as much as he wants… _needs_ this) that Snape is only giving in because everything is about to come to a head. Nothing will ever be the same again.

Together they get the rest of his buttons undone, and Harry pushes the shirt off his shoulders. Then, his hands are yanking at his belt. Snape lifts his hips as Harry pushes his trousers down his thighs. The man kicks them off, leaning down to kiss his way down Harry’s stomach. It tickles but it’s lovely. “Perfect,” Snape whispers, and Harry can hardly believe he’s heard the word.

Harry smiles and rolls them over, sitting up on his knees. His jeans are unbuttoned, hanging open on his hips; his cock is hard and pressed against the fabric of his pants. Snape leans up on one elbow, hand tugging at his trousers. Harry reaches out to card his fingers through his hair, twisting and pulling until Snape gasps. “Take them off,” he growls, and together they tug Harry’s jeans down, toss them onto the floor.

When he bends over, his cock slides wetly against Snape’s hip.

“Fuck.”

“Such words for a professor.” He laughs.

“I am no longer your professor.”

“Prove it.”

“Fuck,” Snape says again.

Harry bites at his jaw, pressing his cock down against Snape’s stomach. The man’s hands are on his back, smoothing over his hips.

“You're beautiful.” Snape brings a hand to Harry’s face, and Harry smiles.

“I suppose that's why you can't resist me.”

Snape’s expression darkens slightly. He takes a deep breath.

Harry looks at him now, concern eating away at his arousal. “Is something wrong?” Snape is not used to taking what he wants, and Harry fears he’s done something that has made him change his mind.

But Snape forces another smile. “No. Nothing is wrong.”

And Harry believes him; it is intoxicating, exhilarating, and disconcerting all at once.

Snape slides his mouth along his jaw and kisses him again, slowly this time, while Harry rocks above him, parts his legs wider, clutches at his shoulders. Snape’s hands move down his sides to grasp his hips, hold him still. “This is madness.”

“Yes.” Harry nips at his earlobe. “I know. Now fuck me.”

Snape shudders and curls his fingers around Harry’s cock; the sensation is so intense, Harry must bite his lip to keep from coming on the spot. The bed creaks as Snape shifts his weight, continues to move his hand.

“Oh, _oh._ ” Harry throws his head back, thrusting through the loop of his fingers. “So good.”

And Snape slides his hands over the small of his back to smooth down the curve of his buttocks. He dips his fingers in between. “Tell me you’ve done this before.” Harry hears the urgency in his own non-question. “I mean…have you?”

Harry blushes and shakes his head. “You know I haven’t.”

Snape takes a deep breath. Harry watches his eyes as he makes a decision. Then he rolls Harry off him. He sits back against the pillows, as Snape leans across to his bedside drawer. Harry recognises the vial of lubricant in the man’s hand. “Here, spread your legs.”

The clear slick liquid pools in Snape’s palm.

When he presses one finger in, Harry gasps, cants his hips, parts his thighs wider. “Oh Christ,” he whispers, head falling back. “That feels… _oh fuck..._ ”

Snape slides another slick finger in, curving them, pressing them deeper. It feels full. It feels amazing. Harry twists his fingers in the bed sheets and rocks his hips as Snape stretches him.

Snape crooks his fingers, brushing across a spot inside that makes him see stars. Harry cries out. “Oh _fuck,_ yes. Do that again.”

The man only smirks, sliding his fingers away. Harry glares. But Snape is smearing lube down his cock. Harry moans and pushes up on his elbows, watching.

Snape kisses Harry once, a soft press of lips, and positions himself between his legs. Harry stares up at him, eyes wide. “Have you ever?” he asks suddenly, then he gasps, horrified at his own impertinence. But Snape smiles.

“A few times,” he answers. “But it’s been a while.”

Harry nods, relieved. “You want me, right?”

Snape nods once.

“I could love you, you know? If you'd let me.” He can’t believe he’s said the words, but it’s okay. The man should know.

Snape tenses. “Harry, I…”

“Stop,” he says, curling his fingers around Snape’s cock. His erection has flagged a bit, but Harry strokes him back to full hardness. He positions it between his thighs, and cants his hips. “Now fuck me.”

With a groan, Snape pushes in, slowly, carefully, gritting his teeth as his cock slips past the tight right of muscle. The pain is blindingly exquisite.

Harry holds his breath, arches beneath him. Snape’s body shakes, but he holds himself perfectly still, allows him to adjust to the blunt press of his cock inside him.

Finally, the tension eases. Harry groans and pushes against him.

“Fuck,” Snape whispers, staring down between them to where they're joined. He watches as he slides in deeper; he grips Harry’s hip with one hand, steadying himself on the other, and takes a deep breath.

It's absolutely perfect.

“More,” Harry gasps, and Snape thrusts in.

“Oh, _God…_ ”

“Are you all right?” Snape asks, tensing. He slides out slowly before pushing in again.

But Harry just laughs and shifts his hips experimentally. They both gasp. “Fuck, yes,” he breathes. “Now _move._ "

Snape does. He thrusts in quick, short movements, curving an arm beneath Harry’s body to pull him closer. The man’s skin and is slick and warm against his, and Harry’s cock is pressed hard between their stomachs. Harry digs his fingers into Snape’s shoulders, and moves his hips to meet each stroke. Their breaths are ragged now, and Harry sucks at Snape’s neck, teeth scraping along soft skin. Harry arches up, and Snape’s hips snap against his.

“Yes,” the man groans against his jaw, pushing into him harder. Harry flings a hand out to press against the headboard, as he lifts his hips off the bed.

“So good.” Harry squeezes his eyes shut. “Just…don’t…stop.”

Snape is breathing hard. Harry’s own cock aches, and he can feel the burn deep against his spine, coiled tight. He knows he can't last much longer. He doesn’t even need to touch himself. “Please…yes harder.” His tongue drags along Snape’s throat; his teeth scrape at his shoulder. He’s nearly there.

“Come on, Harry," the man says, voice strained. “I want you to come while I'm inside you.”

Harry’s eyes fly open; his cheeks are hot, and his hips jerk as Snape slips a hand between them to fist his cock. “Snape—I…” With a sharp cry, he comes, muscles clenching and clenching.

Harry slumps back against the pillows breathless, and Snape rises up on his knees to push into him harder, again and again. “Please, Severus,” he murmurs, reaching out to stroke his fingers gently along the side of his face. “Let go. I want to watch you come.” And Harry licks his lips, circles his hips once, and it's enough.

Snape gasps as his cock pulses and jerks inside of Harry. He collapses on top of him then, and they lie there, arms and legs entwined as they struggle to catch their breath. After a few moments, Snape slides out, and he rolls over. Harry’s heart is pounding in his ears. Snape gets up and walks to the bathroom. He closes the door behind him.

Harry feels strange. He takes a deep breath and fights to hold back the swell of panic that threatens to wash over him. He wanted this, and Snape did too. He knows this, but he also knows the man will feel guilty, will worry he’s taken something he doesn’t deserve.

“Snape?” He calls out. His voice is soft, unsure. “Are you coming back?” He hears the water shut off, and then the door opens again. Harry sits up on the ruin of his bed. The sheets are twisted and bunched around his hips. He looks nervously at Snape, but he forces a smile. Snape sits back down beside him. “Here,” he says softly, wiping Harry’s stomach clean.

Harry curls his fingers in the blanket. “Are you all right?”

Snape nods. Harry feels a knot of tension release from his chest. “You're sure? Because I…”

“Shush,” the man says gently, pressing a kiss to Harry’s lips. “I'm fine. Everything is fine.”

Neither of them fall asleep. They lie curled together for a long time.

“Can we go somewhere together? When it’s over, for just a little while?” Harry asks.

“Your schooling.”

Harry looks up at him. His cheeks are still warm and pink, but he’s sure Snape can see the fear in his eyes now. “I can’t, Severus. Not yet. This magic…” He trails off, but the man understands, of course; he feels it too. “We can just go away for a bit. Until I can control it better, until—”

Snape kisses him again. “Shush, shush. We’ll go. We’ll go wherever you want.”

Harry sighs and presses his face to the man’s shoulder. “I’ve never been to the beach.”

* * * * *

  
Epilogue

 _14 August, two years later_

They hadn’t really talked about afterwards.

Snape never saw the point. In his mind, there were always two plausible scenarios. Either they’d be successful, and he would die helping the boy bring down the Dark Lord. Or, they’d fail, and he wouldn’t be alive to worry about the aftermath.

His death made sense. It always had. There wasn’t a place for a Death Eater turned spy in a Voldemort-free world. And frankly, the thought of the interrogations, the queries, the investigations and trials, the public scrutiny was more terrifying than facing down the Dark Lord.

But they won.

Harry cast the spell, and the Dark Lord died (not with a bang, but a whimper).

And it was over.

In the jubilant turmoil of victory, everyone seemed to overlook his own role in You-Know-Who’s demise. No one bothered Harry too much either; Minerva saw to that. Boy Heroes need to rest, after all.

And so, on a sunny morning, three days after the fall of the darkest wizard the world has ever known, Snape took Harry’s hand in his. They walked to the edge of Hogwarts’s wards, and Apparated to the south coast of Italy.

Dumbledore left them a place. ( _‘It’s not much. But Positano is lovely in the summertime. And I do believe Harry will like the water.’_ ) And soon, they settled into a comfortable routine.

Harry likes the water.

He spends hours paddling about in the blue-green waters off the sandy shore just down the path from their cottage.

He flies too. And though Snape will never admit it, he loves watching out the window as the boy makes lazy loops in the clear afternoon sky. Their house is heavily warded. Dumbledore saw to that. And though he knows people are looking for them now, they won’t be found. Not until they want to be.

Minerva keeps them apprised of news in Britain, at Hogwarts. And Harry has received an owl or two from his friends. But, for the most part, they are happy here alone.

Snape brews potions in the small laboratory beside the kitchen. He sells a few by owl order and (at Harry’s insistence) has kept the werewolf in Wolfsbane -- oh the things he does for the boy. But, to his great surprise, he enjoys crafting Muggle lotions and homeopathic remedies that he can sell every Saturday and Sunday in the town square. Honeymooners and tourists, visiting from Napoli for the weekend, provide enough income for them to live comfortably.

And they are happy.

Snape checks the cauldron simmering on the burner. The Dreamless Sleep is a pale lilac colour. It is one of the few potions he brews to keep on hand for personal use. Harry is still plagued by nightmares. He replaces the lid, watches condensation gather under the glass. The potion will need to simmer for an hour before he adds the final ingredients.

He sets his ladle on the countertop and walks out through the kitchen to the back yard. Their view is lovely, with a gently meandering walk winding its way to the Mediterranean.

Harry is lounging on a chaise, an old issue of _Quidditch Monthly_ on the ground beside him. Snape wipes his hands on his apron and allows himself to look for just a moment. Potter is wearing only swim trunks. And though they are a hideous shade of Gryffindor gold, the boy is absolutely beautiful. His pale skin is bronzed now. And Snape’s eyes follow the sweep of his narrow chest down the flat planes of his stomach to the waistband of his shorts.

“Must you roast away out here all day?”

The boy sighs and stretches, catlike on his chair, before smiling up at Snape sleepily. “You should try it sometime. You’re still too pale. Besides,” he says, sitting up. “You seemed busy.”

Snape watches a bead of sweat slide down Harry’s neck. He wants to catch it with his tongue. He takes a deep breath. The air is warm and humid. “I was. I’m done now.”

Harry nods. “Sit with me?”

Snape sits down beside him, presses a kiss to the boy’s temple. Potter smells of sweat and sun lotion.

“I owled McGonagall.”

“Oh?”

“She said I could return next term if I wanted to. Complete seventh-year. Sit for my N.E.W.T.S.”

Snape frowns. Though Potter has mentioned such a plan in passing, he had no idea he was serious. “And are you considering this?”

The boy shrugs, one slight shoulder rising and falling. “Dunno. I’ve been thinking about it some. I’m ready now. My magic is under control.”

“It is,” Snape says carefully.

“Might be nice, you know. To finish properly.” Harry looks away, staring off toward the horizon. Snape can make out the white specks of sailboats bobbing in the distance on the water.

“You know you don’t need to, Harry.”

The boy nods, says nothing.

“With your magic—”

“I know.” He looks at Snape, green eyes flashing, but then he sighs, collapses back against the pillow on his lounge.

They rarely talk about how exceptionally powerful Potter is. And they both understand the risks. Not to others, of course. Not anymore. Harry is in complete control of his magic. He has been for some time.

But if the Wizarding world were to discover how strong their Saviour actually was… Snape shudders. It isn’t a reaction they want to test. “You are fully qualified for anything you wish to pursue. They will let you sit for your N.E.W.T.S.” He brushes a palm against the boy’s cheek. It is warm from the sun. “With a little tutelage, you will pass. You hardly need to subject yourself to a formal seventh-year.”

“I know.” Harry smiles sadly at Snape. Something catches deep inside his chest, next to his heart. “But I feel like it’s something I have to do.”

“You won’t know anyone.” Snape is grasping at straws now, and he knows it. But the thought of Harry leaving…he takes another deep breath. “All of your year—”

“I’ll know some people.” Harry twines his fingers together with Snape’s, and Snape doesn’t want the boy to ever let go. “The fourth and fifth-years when I was still there.”

Snape nods.

“And I’ll be able to Apparate home on weekends.”

“Home?” Snape looks up, confused.

Harry laughs softly. “Hogwarts was the first home I ever had. But now…” He moves closer, insinuating himself under Snape’s arm. “Now it’s wherever you are, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I suppose it is.”

The boy closes his eyes. Snape brushes his fringe off his forehead, presses a kiss to the scar. It is white and pale now, and Snape knows it hasn’t hurt in two years.

The ice inside his chest melts away with the afternoon Italian sun.  


-The End-

  



End file.
